Ragnarok (Sequel to And The Quest)
by Seanchaidh
Summary: With Flynn and Eve away on their honeymoon, blissfully unaware of the impending chaos left behind them, and with Charlene taking over as mother hen, can the Librarians and their growing army of acquaintances stem the flow of the Serpent Brotherhood's latest forays into magic, death and destruction. Warning: character death(s).
1. Episode 1: Chapter 1

**Well, here it is folks: the first chapter of the first episode of the third series. The plan is still to post an episode a week, roughly 5 chapters apiece and at a rate of a chapter a day. All reviews are welcomed. All views expounded by characters in the series are theirs, not mine, and are extrapolated from the data in the show. I do not own the concept or the six main characters and Charlene, or anyone else from the canon that may turn up: that's all Devlin and Rogers and their pals. I'm keeping da Vinci and the MacLeod women though!**

 **I am saying this now, loud and clear, up front and in full view of everyone: if you have not already got the hint from previous series and the title of this one here is a big, bold warning for those of you wishing to avoid such tales.**

 **Characters will die in this series.**

 **Sorry, but they will.**

 **I don't do candy coated romances.**

 **(P.S. At least one of the deaths will be one of the big six and will be permanent.)**

 **You have been warned!**

* * *

 **Ragnarok**

 **Episode 1: History's Greatest Monster, Chapter 1**

Cassandra Cillian opened her eyes. Her nose was touching the page in front of her, the book still open on her desk. She sat up and looked around, discretely checking for witnesses. There were none. Well, there was Jones, but he was sound asleep upside down in a chair, his ankles hanging over the top of its headrest, his head hanging back off the seat cushion. Cassandra blinked and shook the sleep out of her head. Location gradually swam into memory. They were in another of the rooms the Library had produced for their use. It was the reading room. At least, that was what they were calling it. It had elbowed its way into the stacks upstairs on the mezzanine after another argument between da Vinci, Jenkins and Stone about Ezekiel's whistling. The argument had not involved Ezekiel, of course. He simply was who he was, and everyone else just had to get used to it. Not that he had been whistling much lately, of course. Nobody had been in the best of moods to start with, but when Ezekiel Jones' grin faltered, Cassandra thought, that's when you knew you really had trouble ahead. The youngest member of their group had spent the entire day with her in the reading room, and it was the first time in the ten days since Flynn and Eve's wedding that he had been so long in any one place. Disappearing on his own had become par for the course for at least part of every day. She stretched and stood up, pushing her comfortable chair back on the deeply carpeted floor without a sound. The book her unconventional colleague had been reading was on the floor, upside down like the rest of him. She picked it up. It was a treatise on the twelve labours of Hercules. Research into the apotheotic possibilities of the items used by the hero on his travels. Since the revelation that Ragnarok was still on its way, they had all been working through Jenkins' ever extending list of artefacts and creatures that could be used by the Serpent Brotherhood to bring about their apocalyptic plan. The accoutrements of several Greco-Roman, Norse and Egyptian heroes had made the cut. Heroes and historical personages were Ezekiel's area of research. Creatures, like the phoenix whose feathers she had been reading about before her own little catnap, were Cassandra's purview. Magical items, small and large, had fallen to Stone. Upon discovery of the runestone's latest message, Jenkins had taken over and strutted like a peacock for all of five minutes before Charlene decided he was better suited to searching the archives for records of similar events, and making lists, of course. The not-quite-so-retired secretary and receptionist had taken up residence in a suite of rooms that looked as though they had been recovered from an archive of their own, and was proving to be even more assertive than Colonel Baird on a bad day, but without the maternal overtones! She had dished out the jobs to each of them without a second glance and had chased da Vinci back to inventory duty with barely a bluster. She had also placed an emphatic embargo on any thought of calling Flynn and Eve.

"Nobody interrupts their honeymoon," she had ordered. "Not until the crazies with 'The end is nigh' on their sandwich boards start getting worried!"

Cassandra looked at her watch. It was after midnight. If Jacob had been here, she would have enlisted his help in turning their younger colleague into a more comfortable position. She tried waking the thief up, but he slumbered on. She stood back and thought. There was a sofa nearby. A book shuffled out of its shelf. She smiled. Once again, the library had read her thoughts and agreed. She held out her hand for the book and it hopped the short distance into it. There was power in its pages. There was power in the very leather that bound it. She focused on the power and held out a hand to Ezekiel. The boy rose gently into the air and floated over to the sofa, his body refolding itself into the cushions as if it had just turned over in the softest feather bed. Cassandra picked up the blanket that always lay over the back of the makeshift bed, drew it over him and left. It wouldn't be the first time he had woken there. It wouldn't be the last.

The office was quiet. Jenkins and da Vinci had long since gone to bed, she thought, or were ensconced in their work somewhere they stood little danger of running into each other. Charlene was definitely in bed. She had long since declared that at least one of them needed to get a full eight hours every night, just to stay sane and keep the rest of them on track. She disappeared at ten each night like clockwork, reappearing at seven the next day, coffee in hand. Jacob was in Cuba, tracking down an art collector. And Flynn and Eve were anywhere but here. For now. She picked her way down the stairs and across the office floor, heading for her own extra-dimensional rooms and sleep.

XXXX

Ezekiel Jones woke suddenly, attempted to turn himself right way up, realised he was right way up and promptly fell off the sofa in a tangled heap of blankets. He extricated himself with the ease of a spider caught in its own web and sat, blinking owlishly, on the floor. Something had woken him. What? He looked around the room. Empty. He listened. Silence. He frowned.

A light made him wrinkle his eyes up. He looked down. The book, his book, was illuminated with a bright, pulsing light. If it had been blue, he might have thought the police were after him, but this light was golden yellow, like syrup on pancakes. He realised he was hungry. He reached for the book and dragged it open to the page. He read the headline. He blinked more sleep out of his eyes. He read it again. He groaned.

"You have got to be kidding me!" Ezekiel Jones cried out to the world in general, slumping back into the sofa. "Can't it at least wait until morning?"

Groaning and muttering, Jones dragged himself to his feet and stumbled to the door. The mezzanine greeted him in apologetic silence, broken only by his sleep-weighted footfalls. A book glowed in greeting as he neared it and he plucked it off its shelf. It was a book he recognised. It was a book he knew well. It was a book from his own childhood.

"I am not going back there," he hissed up at the ceiling. "Send someone else! Monsters are Cassandra's deal these days!"

The back door clicked open and clunked shut with a fizz of magic and electricity. Jones edged forward and peered down over the balcony. "And where have you been sneaking off to?"

Jenkins froze, his back to the thief. When he turned, his features had been marshalled into their usual inscrutable mask. Jones, the book still in his hand, folded his arms and did his best Baird inquisition impression. Jenkins smiled smugly and turned to his desk.

"Fine," Jones sighed, yawning and continuing down the stairs. "Since you're here, what do you know about this. It just showed up."

Jenkins looked down at the clippings book the boy passed him. He cast his eyes over the page in silence once, then again. He stared, frowning, at the page as if it was deliberately trying to confuse him. Then his eyes went wide and his eyebrows shot up his forehead. He held out his hand for the other book and Jones passed it over. The Caretaker opened the book to the index and looked up a page. He compared one book's contents to the other. He shook his head.

"I haven't heard of them causing trouble in years. I thought they were extinct!" Jenkins gasped, handing the books back to Jones. "In fact, the last time I heard anything about them was nineteen forty one. We were a bit busy at the time. Judson had sent the Librarian and her guardian to retrieve at item before the competition got there. He asked me to deal with this. I thought I had done so sufficiently, and that the creatures would not awaken in this dimension again. Apparently I was wrong."

"Nineteen forty one?" Jones frowned. "Why do I know that date?"

"The insurgence happened at Meeberrie," sighed Jenkins. "Perhaps you know the name?"

"Australia's strongest earthquake," Jones groaned. "That was them?"

"Cause or effect, one or the other," shrugged Jenkins. "What with all the quakes we've been having recently, my guess is that one has hit near a nest and woken them up. I can find the scrolls I used last time, but with all this going on I dare say using them might be a bit more, well, clouded."

"Clouded?" Jones frowned.

"Ragnarok is coming," said the old man. "Wild magic is loose, and the Serpent Brotherhood is using it to envelop the world in a cloud of raw magic, like static interference. I might not be powerful enough to get through it. Not alone."

"You're not alone," grinned the thief. "You've got me!"

"No offence, Mr Jones," smiled Jenkins, "but the level of magic you have absorbed over the last twenty months is more akin to a raindrop than an ocean. We're going to need at least a reservoir."

"You mean we're going to need Cassandra," Jones nodded, his shoulders sagging. "It's nearly two in the morning. Do you want to wake her or shall I?"

"I'll go," Jenkins sighed. "You finish reading that book. Best to know the beast before you hunt it."

"Believe me, I know," groaned Jones.

Jenkins, moving now towards the office door, stopped and turned. He eyed the young man suspiciously. "You do?"

"There's a reason the book gave it to me, Jenkins," Jones admitted grudgingly. Honesty was still a novelty for him. "I've done this before."

Jenkins turned fully and walked back to the thief. He raised the boy's chin and scrutinised his face. "I'd remember if I'd seen you on any of my decreasingly frequent excursions. I don't recall any other incursions since forty one. When exactly did you do this before?"

Jones took a deep breath. "I was very young," he said. "Before I got my first letter. I got dragged into something that barely made sense them and only makes slightly more sense now. It's not a short story though, so maybe we'd better all hear it together."

"Hmm," Jenkins considered. He nodded. "I will awaken Miss Cillian and bring her here. While I do so, might I suggest you make some coffee and consider a concise and consistent manner in which to communicate your chronicle."

"You do know there was an easier way of saying that, right?" Jones raised an eyebrow at the receding figure.


	2. Episode 1: Chapter 2

**Thank you to my two guest reviewers. I am glad you are both enjoying the story so far and I do appreciate your reviews. I'm not letting anything slip though about whose fate awaits.**

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 **Episode 1: History's Greatest Monster, Chapter 2**

Cassandra followed Jenkins back into the office still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "This better be good, Jones," she growled.

"Sorry," apologised the younger man. "Don't know about 'good', as such. All I've got is one or more rare magical creatures that will probably want to eat us and need shoving through some magical door we need you to open. Well, you and Jenkins. Will that do?"

"I guess it'll have to," she sighed. "What it is? Another wendigo?"

"It's Australian, not American," Jenkins informed her. "What's more, our resident Aussie has encountered these bloodthirsty beasts before. Before he even got his first letter, he tells me."

Cassandra was fully awake now. She looked at Ezekiel with wide eyes. "What?"

"Bear in mind I'm from Australia, please," shrugged Ezekiel. "We have a higher background level of death by nature. Weird critters after my blood were not all that out of the realms of natural possibilities when I was that age."

"What age were you, exactly?" Cassandra blinked.

Jones handed her a mug of coffee and steered her into a chair. Jenkins leant back against the desk with folded arms and turned an expectant gaze on the young man. The thief helped himself to a second mug of coffee and sat opposite them. Wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic, he stared at the dark liquid for a moment, then began.

"It started a month or two after my eighth birthday. As a birthday present, the government had decided to switch my foster home yet again, so I'd only been there a few weeks. It was a home in Perth. I'd never lived there before. This time I'd been shipped right the way across country. No idea why. Maybe they'd run out of places that hadn't heard of me. I was a terror back then. Never spoke to anyone, not even at meals. Only ever really showed up for meals, spent the rest of the time hiding. It was the only thing I was any good at back then. Always skipping school, sneaking into places that didn't know me, that I could hide in. Anyway. We'd been having quakes, just small ones, since early September. They were focused about a hundred miles away, but we still felt them in Perth. It made me consider more carefully my choices of hiding place. Well, one day, I had tagged along with this school trip I saw heading into a museum. Might have been my school, I was never there long enough to know what trips were going on or to recognise any faces. Well, except the principal and my own teacher of course. Anyhow, I tagged along, listening in while the guide explained stuff and told stories. One of the kids asked if the exhibits came to life when we all went home and the guide told him they did. She said the guards were only there at night to make sure none of them escaped. Well, that made my mind up, of course. Right there and then, I decided I was staying, and I was staying all night if I could. I snuck away from the group and found a good spot to hide in. It would mean skipping dinner, so I went and stocked up on juice and sarnies from the cafeteria and took them back to my little den. I wandered around the rest of the museum until near closing time, then went and hid. Once I was sure the guards and everyone else had gone, I brought out my stash and had a right little picnic. I was dropping the rubbish in the bin when I heard the noise. At first I thought it was a guard, so I dropped down behind the bin and hid. I kept watching though, just in case anything came to life of course. Eventually, a man appeared. He wasn't a guard though. He was tall, dark haired, square jawed. He moved like a cat, all dressed in black but for the satchel he was carrying. When he was sure there were no guards, he straightened. I saw him read a few exhibit cards and shake his head, as if they were so wrong he couldn't even begin to start correcting them."

"Sounds like Edward Wilde," murmured Jenkins. "He was the Librarian before Flynn. Had a bad habit of sneering at anyone he deemed less blessed with intelligence than himself. I do hate arrogant people."

Both Cassandra and Ezekiel threw him a look.

"What?" Jenkins shifted uncomfortably. "It's not arrogance if you actually are more intelligent than everyone around you. Wilde had a genius for history and the ability to comprehend deep time in a way that very few people can. He had doctorates in archaeology, palaeontology and cryptozoology. When it came to general intelligence, though, he was as average as any other Librarian."

"Well, there's a new definition of 'average'," breathed Cassandra.

"Remind me one day to sneak that Greek Apple into _your_ pocket," said Jones. "Anyway, this Wilde dude was bending over a tray of exhibits in the Katta Djinoong section. I watched him take something out of the satchel and attach it to his hand, then I watched him put his hand through the glass. At first I thought I was seeing an illusion of some kind, like he was just putting his hand between the cases, or the top of the case was open somehow. Then he brought his hand out again. This time he was holding something, I never did find out what, and this time _I saw the glass bend up with him_! It dropped back into place like it was made of water, or maybe some kind of transparent treacle. That's when he noticed me. I guess I cried out or made some kind of noise, I don't know, but he turned and spotted me immediately. I was frozen. If he could do that to glass, who knew what he could do to me. He walked over and introduced himself. He said he was Professor Wilde and he was just collecting a few items for research. I think I nodded. I know I didn't say anything. He told me to go back to my hiding place and go to sleep. The exhibits wouldn't be waking up tonight."

"He left a child alone in a museum?" Cassandra cut in.

"Hey! I was already there!" Ezekiel returned. "I wasn't planning on burning the place down you know!"

"It doesn't surprise me," muttered Jenkins. "From what little I remember of him he always did seem rather... Single-minded."

"He was the one that faked his own death and joined the bad guys, right?" Cassandra hissed.

"Indeed," nodded Jenkins. "Took over as head of the organisation, I believe. Instructed them on how to get into the Library. That was before access required someone inside as well as out."

"You mean before I did exactly the same thing?" Cassandra quipped.

"Oh no," Jenkins shook his head. "Wilde knew exactly what he was doing and who he was joining and he still chose to leave. He chose to switch sides knowing exactly what those sides were. You just got caught in a battle you did not then understand between sides you had never heard of. How were you supposed to know who was right and who was wrong?"

"They always say, if something sounds to good to be true, it usually is," she shrugged.

"Meanwhile, back in my story," cried Jones, with some alacrity. "So Wilde stows me away and disappears with the relic. I stay awake all night, just in case, then sneak out with the first wave of visitors in the morning. I got back to the house in time for breakfast. Skipping dinner gets me a smack or two and I'm sent up to my room with a plate of dry toast and told to be thankful for it. I get up there and dig out the little disposable camera I'd bought on the trip over. I was going back to the museum that night too, but this time I'd go prepared. I rolled up a bath towel and shoved it in the bottom of my rucksack to use as a blanket. Grabbed some paper and pencils too. I finished the toast and made my escape. Nothing happened that night, or the next, or for a long time after it, but from then on my little rucksack was always stuffed with that big towel, a camera, water, chocolate, and something to write and draw on."

"What were you staking out, though?" Cassandra asked, a smile on her face. "The exhibits or Wilde?"

"Eh, a bit of both really," shrugged Ezekiel. "I got to know the inside of the museum really well. It was more like home to me than the foster home. In a couple of months I knew all the nooks and crannies to hide in. I knew which doors were alarmed and which weren't, and how to tell. I even knew where the best place to hide during an earthquake was. I found my way into the archives and the research areas. I learnt the entire inventory and where everything was kept. Worked out a few of the keypad codes for the more secure areas. Believe it or not, it was the first time I'd broken in anywhere when I finally managed that. That let me in to the research areas of course, and that meant free food from the staff fridges. Just as well, since the life savings I'd taken with me were starting to dry up and I hadn't dared try stealing from the cafeteria, yet. I wondered about trying to pick some of the more conventional locks, but I didn't even know where to start. It was months later and I was exploring one of the large research areas when I saw him again. He was trying to get into one of the private work areas. It was a keypad lock. I didn't even stop to think if it was a good idea or not, I just walked right up and asked him if he needed a hand. He said he had to pick up something for a friend who worked there, which I, of course, believed, and he'd forgotten his friend's key code. I opened the door for him. There were a lot of things out on the desk in the work area, but he walked straight by them and up to an office door. This one had a normal lock. He looked at me, but I shrugged and said I didn't know how to open those locks. It was probably the most I had said to any single person since arriving in Perth. He beckoned for me to join him at the door and said that maybe now he could repay the favour. He had a set of lock picks, the first I'd ever seen, and he showed me how to use them. Together we unlocked the door and then the desk we found on the other side of it. It was one of those big old solid wood things, with drawers that locked and hid secret drawers within the locked ones. He showed me how to get into both, then took a small, white, cardboard box out of the secret drawer. He was going to go, but I followed him and begged him to take me with him. We got out through the ventilation system. It's strange, you didn't think twice about disappearing with a stranger back then. Nowadays, you'd be running in the opposite direction. At least: if you had any sense you would. Anyway, we found his car and started driving. We headed out of town and towards the desert. Towards the epicentre of the tremors. I'd never seen the land around there before, but I was tired, so I curled up and slept for most of the trip. I woke up in a car surrounded by monsters."

"The monsters we're going after now?" Cassandra asked.

Jones nodded. "I think so: they sound the same, although their appearance has just about as many descriptions as there are sightings."

"So what are they?" Cassandra frowned. "How did Wilde kill them?"

"I don't know that he did," shrugged Jones. "All I saw was Wilde in the middle of this press of animals, then he raises a hand and white light comes streaming out of it. For a while I couldn't see anything. Then I see car's lights go on and feel the engine start. I must have fallen asleep again, because, when I woke up, I was in the foster home's garden shed. I got told off again at breakfast for skipping dinner, but those rants had long since stopped meaning anything to me. I ate quietly, went to my room when told, and generally stayed out of trouble all day. It was Saturday, so I just hid in my room and slept until nightfall."

"But what _are_ they?" Cassandra repeated. "What are we up against?"

"Beware the monstrous bunyip's nips,  
it will catch you if it can.  
Your flesh it eats, your blood it sips..." Ezekiel stopped with a groan and a frown.

"What's wrong?" Jenkins frowned.

"I can't remember the rest," sighed Jones. "It's just a little poem he taught me. I'm sure it's not important, but he taught me the rest anyway."

"It'll come back to you," shrugged Jenkins.

Cassandra raised her hand tentatively. "Excuse me," she said. "What's a bunyip?"


	3. Episode 1: Chapter 3

**Episode 1: History's Greatest Monster, Chapter 3**

Cassandra, Ezekiel and Jenkins stood gathered round the central desk, a plethora of books laid out before them. The Library had kindly suggested a few palaeontological journals along with the usual card catalogue finds for mythological beasts.

"It looks like your bunyips were actually diprotodon, or diprotodon were bunyips," said Cassandra, holding a childish drawing up against a much more professional sketch in a journal next to a photograph of an assembled skeleton. "I can't believe you kept this!"

"I'd just watched this mysterious professor man beam a bunch of monsters into who knows what and who knows where," replied Ezekiel. "I hadn't had a chance to grab my camera, so as soon as I could, I drew what I remembered. Well, I tried to."

"Aw, I think it's sweet," grinned Cassandra. "You were only eight you know. Nobody's a great artist at that age."

"Don't say that in front of Leo," warned Jenkins. "Not unless you're prepared for the interminable lecture that follows. The man never does tire of singing his own praises."

"Oh, is that why you don't get on?" Cassandra blinked innocently.

Jenkins grumbled a wordless and noncommittal reply, and stalked off to make more tea. It had been a matter of note that relations between the two were strained from the start. Librarian curiosity being what it was, it was now a matter of interest too. Neither man was forthcoming, no matter how delicately or sneakily they attempted to inveigle the truth.

"So you think the bunyips are causing the earthquakes in Australia?" Cassandra looked round to Jones again. "I thought we'd decided that was down to the whole Ragnarok thing?"

"It could be both," Jones shrugged. "Or not. Jenkins thinks not. Wilde never did explain it all to me. You might have the link between the bunyips and the tremors back to front."

"Instead of the creatures causing the quakes, the quakes wake the creatures," Cassandra nodded. "Could be. I'm just assuming they're the cause, rather than the effect, because the other quakes have been caused by magic or dragons or something. Maybe this time they're the injured party."

"They are not cuddly, friendly, misunderstood pets, Miss Cillian," sighed Jenkins, returning, cup in hand. "They are bloodthirsty killers. You may be right that the earthquakes have caused their awakening, as opposed to the opposite, but that does not make them any less of a threat. They are as much the injured party as a wendigo whose cave is unblocked by miners. Not at fault, but no less deadly."

"So how do we stop them?" Jones asked. "I only know Wilde took something from the Katta Djinoong section. I don't know what it was, how he did it, or even if it was the same thing he used to vanish them all."

"Vanish or banish?" Cassandra frowned, her head tipping to one side.

"If I said 'banish' I'd be inferring that I knew they went somewhere," mused Jones. "I don't. I only know they vanished."

"Hmm," agreed Jenkins. "I have another question. Why were they so far west? Again! Both on that occasion and when I encountered them myself. I thought bunyips were a south-eastern creature? Victoria and so on."

"They are, as far as I'm aware," shrugged Jones, "but that's definitely what I saw. No two ways about it."

"Well, they're neither south-east nor south-west now, if this article is anything to go by," sighed the old man.

"Not the top end," groaned Ezekiel. "I hate mangroves."

"Did you even read this clipping before you passed the book off to someone else?" Jenkins admonished the younger man. "Anyway, it mentions Alice Springs which, if I remember rightly, is somewhere around the middle."

"It's still in the Territory," sighed Ezekiel. "It's just in the excruciatingly hot and dry bit instead of the excruciatingly hot and damp bit."

"It's heading for May, I would imagine the temperatures would be starting to wane a little," replied Jenkins. "Besides, if we can get the scrolls to work, or if we can figure out what Wilde did, we shouldn't have to be there long."

"Yeah, that's a big 'if'!" Jones replied, pulling a face. "I mean, I've heard some stories of characters from the dreamtime that could disappear into rocks, but not bunyip, and not anything like that."

"Then might I suggest you start with those," smiled Jenkins patiently. "Miss Cillian can see what the Library itself holds, as one would assume Wilde returned the item he used here, and I will begin looking for the scrolls I used previously."

"Would he though?" Cassandra asked. "If Wilde was working for the Serpent Brotherhood, would he have returned something powerful like that to the Library or would he have given it to them? Or even just kept it himself?"

Jenkins considered this. "You may be right," he admitted. "Unfortunately we have no way of knowing how or when Wilde crossed that particular line. I dare say what we find will give us our answer. If the items Mr Jones has described are here, we may assume Wilde had not, as yet, 'gone over to the dark side'. If they are not, well: I think that would suggest quite the opposite."

The two Librarians watched the old man leave, his brow furrowed and thoughtful. It was a minute or two before either of them spoke, and it was Ezekiel that broke the silence.

"You will check everywhere for those things, won't you?"

"Of course," replied Cassandra, watching him carefully. "Any particular reason why you ask?"

"No, no," the young man answered, shaking his head. "Just checking."

"Uh-huh," mused Cassandra, watching him hurry off to the reading room, books in hand. She looked down at the drawing still in her hands. The stick-like figure of a man could be seen on one side, raising the arm next to the creatures that looked over at him from the opposite side of the page, fangs bared. In the raised hand was something round and bright yellow - the general childhood colour for light - with rays of yellow spreading out from it and over the creatures. Cassandra noted that the figure was dressed all in black and carried a brown bag slung over one shoulder. She also noted that smaller yellow rays, like a child would draw around the sun, shone out from the figure's head and body. She smiled sadly and cast a glance up the stairs before replacing the picture on the pile of palaeontology books they had been looking through. For Ezekiel's sake, she really did hope the shining stone, and the item Wilde had worn to acquire it, were in the Library somewhere.

XXXX

Evening was drawing near in Alice Springs when the trio arrived, stumbling out of the front door of an art gallery. Jenkins had refused to elaborate on where he had come across the didjeridoo, but his hooking it up to the globe had provided the morning's free entertainment for the other two. They suspected they might pay for it later.

They drew a few looks as they left the vicinity of the gallery, not least because it was already closed for the evening. They headed towards the nearest street corner and looked around. A wooden sign proclaimed the pedestrian precinct to be part of the Todd Mall. A street sign across the road proclaimed the street itself to be Gregory Terrace.

"Any ideas where we go from here?" Cassandra looked hopefully from one to the other of the men beside her.

"Well, I do believe I spy a Victoria Bitter sign down the street opposite, so I vote we start with the pub," replied Ezekiel, grinning and turning in that direction.

"Librarians do not drink beer for breakfast," cut in Jenkins, a finger deftly inserting itself in the collar of Ezekiel's jacket.

"But it's dinner time here!" Jones complained.

"Not for you it isn't," retorted Jenkins. "Miss Cillian, I do believe bunyips are river dwelling creatures. If you wouldn't mind finding the Todd River on the map and leading the way."

"Map girl strikes again," sighed Ezekiel.

"You are aware I now have the magical ability to make it so you never get to drink beer again," Cassandra replied tartly. "Enough with the 'map girl'!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," groaned the thief.

"Come on," said the redhead, closing the map and pointing in a direction perpendicular to Ezekiel's. "This way."

Jenkins let a sulky Ezekiel stroll on ahead of them before leaning down to Cassandra's ear. "Could you actually do that?"

Cassandra shrugged. "All the possibilities that spring to mind right now are fairly drastic. I mean, I'd either have to get rid of beer entirely, for everyone, which I think I could do, at least within a given radius, or I'd have to remove his mouth, which I'm not entirely sure I could do, or his head, which think I could but obviously I never would, or his hands, although knowing him he'd probably find a way around that one. So yes, I'm seventy eight point nine percent certain that I could find a way to stop Ezekiel drinking beer permanently, but so far the only non-lethal method I've come up with means I don't get any either."

"Let's not tell him that," suggested Jenkins, a corner of his mouth curling up into a sly smile. "At least not for a while."

"Or ever!" Cassandra grinned back.

They reached the sandy vista of the Todd River and came to a halt. Ezekiel was already down in the riverbed, scuffing up sand with his hands shoved deep in his pockets like a truculent teenager. Cassandra stopped short of the depression. She looked up to Jenkins with a quizzical frown. "Shouldn't there be water here?"

"Only occasionally," Jenkins shrugged.

"I thought I read somewhere that they had boat races?" Cassandra turned her frown back on the apparently arid area. "How can you have boat races on that?"

"They pick them up and run with them," supplied Ezekiel, looking along the length of the riverbed. "The boats, I mean. They're bottomless boats and the crews get in then pick them up and run with them. It's meant to be ironic."

"I see," replied Cassandra, still frowning, but more in confusion now.

"I'm sure you don't, but it's nice of you to try," trilled Ezekiel. "Come on down: there won't be any flash floods tonight."

"How can you tell?" Cassandra asked, shuffling down the shallow slope provided by tree roots and hurrying over to turn an encouraging and curious smile on the thief. "Is it an Aussie thing? Local knowledge?"

"You do realise that you are standing in the middle of a continent wider and broader on the map than the main chunk of the United States asking a guy who is from the equivalent of Florida and California how much he knows about the bottom corner of South Dakota!" Ezekiel retorted looking up at her for the first time, some of his usual confidence still apparent in his eyes.

"Well, how do you know then?" Cassandra retorted, her head high and her voice gently challenging.

"I read the weather report before we left!" Ezekiel waggled his phone at her. "There's supposed to be some sort of link, I think. Either the flash flood is a warning of bunyips or bunyips are a warning of flash floods, or something. I don't know: I can't remember. Not all of us are blessed with photographic memories you know."

"So they're water creatures?" Cassandra continued. "I thought you last came across them in the desert?"

"News flash: we're standing in a desert right now!" Jones quipped, sarcasm filling the gap left by recent revelations. "Bunyips are like the otter's bigger, badder, probably marsupial cousin, sort of. They live in rivers, even dry ones, and lakes and swamps and there is some kind of link between them and flash floods, and, apparently, earthquakes."

"But we don't know whether that link is cause or effect," she nodded, following his gaze up the river. "I see."

"Whatever history or science would have us believe," said Jenkins, joining the two on the sand, "I can attest that the bunyip is very definitely a real, dangerous, and magical creature. Now according to Mr Jones' clippings book, still in my care, the reported occurrence occurred along the river to the north of the town."

Ezekiel raised an arm and pointed. "That's that way. I'd say we probably want to get a move on if we're going to do this before sundown."

"I know," agreed Cassandra. "The temperature will plummet, we won't be able to see where we're going or what we're doing. Night comes fast out here, doesn't it?"

"I wouldn't know," shrugged the Aussie. "I was more concerned with not being able to see the bloodthirsty man-eating monsters we're heading off to evict from our dimension before they rip our throats out."


	4. Episode 1: Chapter 4

**Episode 1: History's Greatest Monster, Chapter 4**

The sun was heading for the horizon and the temperature starting to drop by the time they reached the scene of the recent 'accident' that had flitted into Ezekiel's clippings book. The area was taped off and the bodies removed but in the last rays of the reddening sun, against the background of the red ochre sands, the blood stains stood out black as oil.

"You'd think they wouldn't show," sighed Cassandra, frowning sadly at the stains. "Oxidation of the haemoglobin usually makes it redder, but outside the body the cells would lyse and the proteins denature, especially in this heat. It's what makes scabs go almost black."

"Two campers, apparently," supplied Jenkins. "Young women, I believe."

"They like women and children, I think," said Jones from a short distance away. "Might be women and girls, I'm not sure."

Ezekiel continued his search, ignoring the muttered conversations going on between the older members of the trio. Somewhere, near the site of the massacre, there was a burrow or cave. Some kind of den. He had to be the one to find it: that much had been agreed. He was the bait. He tracked down the creatures, irritated them as only he could, and got them to follow him out into the open expanse of the riverbed, where Cassandra and Jenkins could use the scrolls to send them back to sleep in their own little pocket dimension. That's how it was supposed to go, anyway. The only trouble was the first bit.

They had been searching for half an hour, the occasional helpful comment floating over from the two in the middle. It usually ended up being more irritating than helpful at Ezekiel's end of things. He would like to think that, if Baird had been here, he wouldn't have been landed with the thin end of the wedge. Unfortunately he knew exactly what she'd say to the suggestion. 'Go annoy something: it's what you're good at.'

The shadows were lengthening out to infinity when they threw a patch of rocky ground into sharp relief. He paused. The small stones and gravel of the area had been ruffled up into lines, dragging tiny troughs into the fine layer of windblown sand that covered the hard earth. Ezekiel bent down to them and reached out a hand. Without touching the lines, he began following their wavering path across the desert. Soon he had to switch on the torch app on his phone, using its light as much to follow the tracks as to keep from stumbling himself. An outcrop of rock loomed before him. He straightened up, and his shoulders sank.

"I am rapidly losing my appreciation for caves," he muttered. He looked around then, only just realising the distance he had travelled from the river. The thought struck him that finding his way back to it, in the dark and without any landmarks spotted on the way, might not be as easy as they had planned. He sighed. "First rule of travelling in time and space: don't wander off!"

Ezekiel shone his torch all over the face of the rocks. There were cracks here and there. There was the occasional graffito - nothing ancient, though. There were other stones and boulders piled up against the outcrop. There were no other entrances. The only possible route for the tracks was into the cave. He leant down and shone the torch inside.

"Hello!" Jones called, almost sure he could feel the echoes reverberating off his skin.

Nothing.

"Anyone alive in there?" Ezekiel tried again, fully aware there wasn't but absolutely certain he was going to try every other explanation for those odd tracks before he settled on the one they were looking for.

Still nothing.

He sighed, screwing up his face into a bundle of lines that had 'I'm going to regret this' written all over them. Then it happened.

A noise echoed out of the dark depths. It was somewhere between the resonant boom of the bittern and the pealing cry of the sea bird, with a harsh leonine growl thrown in for good measure. The unfamiliar, chimerical nature of the sound froze the young Librarian in his tracks, something in the forefront of his mind trying to analyse and identify it. The call sounded again. This time it was closer. Much closer. His thief brain, hiding in the darkness of the back of his mind, took over.

"Second rule: run!" Ezekiel muttered, and bolted back the way he had came.

Between his speed and his unsteady torch, he quickly lost the tracks. It was too late to turn and go back, though: something was chasing him. Something big and determined and definitely not improved by turning round or looking back to find out what it was. He kept an eye on the ground and one on the way ahead and ran for his life. Stones and boulders, trees and troughs loomed out of the darkness to challenge him. He ducked and wove, dodged and leapt. He surely should have hit the river by now? Somewhere in the darkness, either on his slow way to the rocks, or on his rapid removal from them, he had got turned around. He had no reference points. The sky was dark, the stars shining down brightly, but he'd never seen the stars here before. It had been long enough since he'd seen them anywhere in Australia. There was no sign of a light from anywhere nearby, either from Cassandra's torch or any isolated homestead. He turned in the direction he thought the riverbed must be, and he kept running.

XXXX

"He's been gone a while," said Cassandra, uneasiness seeping into her bones as the warmth of the day filed out. "Should we go check on him?"

"Mr Jones can take care of himself," replied Jenkins, his voice calm and quiet as always. How much of that, Cassandra wondered was just for her benefit? He shifted beside her. "It is getting quite dark, however, and the moon will not be up for a while yet. Perhaps a little light would be prudent."

Cassandra reached into a pocket for her phone. A shout sang through the air and ended in an expletive.

"Maybe lots of light," corrected Jenkins hastily. "Lots of light indeed. Now, Miss Cillian, if you please."

Cassandra dropped the hand that held her phone and raised the other. A ball of light formed there, light streaming for her fingertips and pooling in her palm. The glow brightened and shot skyward, spilling waves of blue-tinged aurora onto the cooling red sand.

"Somebody's going to see that," murmured Cassandra, her voice tight. "Even this far out from the town, it's going to be visible."

"Let's hope that somebody is Ezekiel," breathed Jenkins. "I expect this is normal practice for you, of course: the running and the screaming."

"Not so much," replied Cassandra breathlessly, her eyes wide and peering into the gloom beyond the circle of light. "Not Ezekiel anyway."

"Of course," shrugged Jenkins, shaking his head at his own forgetfulness. "He's spent half his life as a thief. Thieves learn to run quietly."

"I wish we knew where he was running to," sighed Cassandra. "It didn't sound like he was coming towards us."

"He's over there, heading north," Jenkins supplied, raising a hand automatically. "Fast."

"How can you tell?" Cassandra frowned. "Even I couldn't pick out the Doppler effect on that scream."

"It's a very distinctive scream," he replied.

Cassandra looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. "How often have you heard someone scream like that?"

"Hmm," Jenkins shrugged, "back when magic was wild and dragons, demons and danger haunted every hillside... I'd say once or twice a week. Less so now. Swearing has been around a lot longer than you young people seem to think it has. We just understood the appropriate circumstances in which to use such terms."

"I'm guessing being chased by something deadly counts?" Cassandra quipped.

"It's why we invented it," said Jenkins.

"You did _not_ invent curse words," retorted Cassandra.

"That one we did," he shrugged.

The scream sounded again.

"And that one," Jenkins added. He raised his arm again. "He's over there now."

"Should we go help him?" Cassandra frowned up at the globe of light hanging over them.

"He seems to be circling back round," said Jenkins, trying to sound confident. "I think he's seen us. If he's leading the creatures back to us we need an open space for this. We don't want to leave the riverbed."

"Maybe we could head up the riverbed then," suggested Cassandra. "Meet him half way."

"That works for me," agreed Jenkins, leading the charge as they hurried off.

The glowing globe of light followed them as they broke into a run up the river. The scream sounded again, cutting through the darkness into the dome of light, and then cutting off. Cassandra stopped in her tracks and looked at Jenkins, her jaw slack. Maybe it was just the light, but the old man's face was as white as his snowy hair. His head swivelled in the direction of the scream, followed moments later by the rest of him.

"This way," he called back to her, leading them up out of the riverbed, his voice shaking.

Cassandra ran after him, the magical torch following like a luminous balloon tethered to her hand. They ducked through the sparse vegetation of the desert, diving around boulders without hesitating to think what may lay beyond. Cassandra tried to reckon how long it had been since they had left the riverbed. Since they had last heard Ezekiel's voice. She could feel the synaesthesia edging forward in her mind, almost _wanting_ to take over. She couldn't afford that. Not now. She forced it back down, focusing on the ground in front of her and Jenkins' receding back. The unfinished scream resounded in her mind, begging to be processed, to be analysed, to be found. Up it welled again, bringing tears with it. Not now. She couldn't afford that now. It was Ezekiel. The lucky thief. Knowing him, he would have found somewhere to hide. Maybe a cabin. Something with a door. That would have cut off the scream like that. Wouldn't it?

But everyone's luck runs out some time.

They raced through the desert, turning this way and that to avoid trees, shrubs and stones. All the while, the ball of light trailed behind them, casting undulating shadows over the unfamiliar landscape. They reached the edge of a dip and Jenkins stopped, Cassandra cannoning into the back of him. The light flickered and went out. In the darkness, as she steadied herself again, Cassandra heard a low, oddly pitched growl. She threw out her hand, light streaming from it onto the scene below. The entire depression was filled with bunyips. If Ezekiel was down there he was on the far side of the horde, or below them. The animals blinked and edged away from the blinding light. Cassandra could feel her hand start to burn as the heat of the light built up. She focussed on controlling it, aware of how badly the rest of her was shaking.

"The scrolls, Miss Cillian," whispered Jenkins by her side. "They won't affect him, only the creatures."

Her other hand now free of her phone, she reached it into the satchel she was carrying. It was Ezekiel's satchel. The realisation caught up with her and she shuddered again. She felt Jenkins' steadying hand on her shoulder and she brought out the scrolls. Handing one to him, she let the other float up out of her grasp. As together they spoke the words on the scroll in Jenkins' hands, its partner floated up and unfurled, stretching out impossibly long to encompass the group below. As they intoned the last words of the incantation, hot pain searing through Cassandra's hand, the two edges of the scroll met once more. The two rolls fused with a flash and disappeared, taking the bunyip herd with them. The depression was empty.

Cassandra cried out in dismay and pain, falling to her knees in the sand. Jenkins crouched down beside her, folding the fingers of her open hand inward and shutting off the light that still spilled forth. He replaced the light with a less magical version, retrieving a small flashlight from his own pockets and turning its beam on Cassandra's hand. It was unmarked.

"Does it still hurt?" Jenkins asked, the strain starting to show through his voice now. "I can't see anything."

"Where is he?" Cassandra sobbed. "He should be here. Where is he?"

"The scrolls would not have affected Mr Jones," replied Jenkins. "They only affect beings in the wrong dimension. They were designed for this purpose when the Library was still anchored in Egypt. They have never affected anyone or anything from this dimension before. I can only assume he found somewhere to hide and the creatures lost his trail."

"You headed straight for here, Jenkins," she replied, still shaking. "I don't see anywhere he could have hidden."

Silence fell as they followed the flashlight beam around the depression. The opposite side was bounded by a low escarpment of rock, the slopes on either side covered in a mixture of sand, loose stones and the occasional stubborn plant. Jenkins raised a shivering Cassandra to her feet.

"Come on," he said. "We should take a look around. Somebody has to and I'm not leaving you sitting here alone. The temperature is dropping and you're going into shock."

"What if he's not there?" Cassandra asked, allowing herself to be led down the slope.

Jenkins drew a deep breath. "One thing at a time. First we look. If we find him, we all go home and rest. If we don't... If we don't, you and I have to head back to the town and the door. We can't spend the night here. Not like this. You've used far too much of your strength and we're not equipped for it. If that was Flynn's satchel, maybe we'd have a tent in there somewhere, but it isn't. We cannot stay here all night. You will end up in another coma, or worse."

"We can't just leave him!" Cassandra turned a face wet with tears to the old man, her eyes begging him to listen.

"We look, then we leave, with or without Mr Jones," repeated Jenkins sternly. "We're not leaving him. We're just going back for reinforcements."


	5. Episode 2: Chapter 1

**I know you were all expecting a fifth chapter at the end of Episode 1, but think of it as my homage to Flynn being stabbed by Cal at the end of The Crown of King Arthur. Don't worry: I haven't forgotten about Ezekiel. I've just realigned my perspective.**

* * *

 **Episode 2: She's Tougher Than She Looks, Chapter 1**

Ezekiel Jones opened his eyes to a grey, fuzzy darkness, like a warm, dry mist, or like smoke that didn't sting or make it hard to breathe. Below him he could feel the sand of the desert, cool, but not cold. He edged himself upwards, looking around for the bunyips. There was no sign of them. He sat up, then immediately regretted it. His head swam. His stomach heaved. He leant over a dry log and retched, but his stomach was empty. He lay still, leaning on the log and breathing heavily. Time passed.

Slowly, so slowly it seemed, the world stopped spinning. Ezekiel edged himself upwards, his eyes still closed. When he had reached an upright position, he eased them open. The first thing he saw was a kangaroo, bent low with its nose almost touching the ground. It wasn't eating, though. It was moving along the ground like that, almost as if it were crawling. Ezekiel turned his head. Near a small thicket of shrubs, an emu was moving along with the same bent-double stance. He sat up further and looked around. Behind him was a rock wall. He frowned at it. It looked familiar. The image flashed into his mind: him, careening over the edge of bowl shaped depression, bloodthirsty bunyips hot on his trail, and unable to stop his own momentum carrying him forward into the rock wall at the bottom of the slope. Another memory brushed his mind, of air and pressure and darkness, then nothing. He turned his head back round to the kangaroo's direction, and jumped.

A tall, impossibly thin, man stood before him. Like the animals, he was bent over double. He crouched down before Ezekiel and said something in a strange tongue. It sounded Aboriginal. Jones shook his head, wishing he had Stone's ear for languages, or Cassandra's eidetic memory, or, like Flynn, both. The man tilted his long, stick-like neck. He considered Ezekiel for a while, then seemed to come to a decision.

"How's your head?"

Ezekiel blinked in surprise. "What?"

"You hit your head when you arrived," explained the thin man. "The transition is bad enough for normals without concussion too."

"Normals?" Ezekiel had the suspicion he was missing something obvious. "Am I dead?"

XXXX

By the time they reached the door, Cassandra was shivering uncontrollably, her breath coming in ragged sobs. Jenkins had already lifted her up into his arms long ago, when her knees had finally given way beneath her. He carried her through the gallery door into the Library, ignoring Charlene's startled exclamation and heading straight for the first aid room and the closest bed. He deposited his charge and straightened, only to find Charlene at his elbow, the coffee she had almost spilled on his arrival now safely left on a desk in the office.

"What in the world!" Charlene demanded, arms folded and eyes boring into the back of the old man's skull.

"Right now, shock, panic attack and magical fatigue," replied Jenkins, trying to ignore the itchy feeling he got in the back of his head whenever Charlene took that tone. "I need blankets, a clean paper bag and information, then she needs peace and quiet."

A paper bag was by his left ear before he finished speaking. "Way ahead of ya."

Jenkins took the bag and handed it to Cassandra while Charlene unfolded blankets and laid them over the shaking young woman. "We'll get him back, don't worry," said the old man softly as Cassandra's breathing settled. "I need you to rest and recharge now. Do you understand me? You must rest, Miss Cillian. Charlene and I, and the others, will work out how to get him back, but if this needs magic, and we may well need magic, we will need you at full strength to use it."

Cassandra made no reply, but nodded, wrapping her arms around a spare pillow and staring mournfully at the opposite wall. Jenkins nodded and rose, ushering Charlene out of the room and closing the door behind them. Charlene, who had submitted to being removed from the room with all the grace of a house cat being evicted from its favourite sunbathing spot, turned on him with the ferocity of a street cat meeting a challenger for its territory.

"Spill!" Charlene commanded. "Right now! What the heck is going on here? Why is Cassandra in such a state and how exactly did you lose our favourite thief?"

"How did you..." Jenkins started, but Charlene cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"Chuckles came back an hour ago, Casanova has been hammering something since before I got up and Flynn and the Colonel are not due back for another two weeks and change. You're here, so how many other him's could you be going to 'get back'?"

"Mr Stone is back? Good," Jenkins nodded, ignoring the glare now directed at his forehead. "I'll get him, you get Leo. Meet me in the office and I will explain everything."

"And what exactly makes you think _you_ get to order _me_ around?" Charlene called at his receding back.

"My Annex!" Jenkins called back.

"My Library!" Charlene retorted.

"Not this bit!" Jenkins pointed out triumphantly.

Charlene growled a wordless reply, unheard by Jenkins, and turned in the direction of da Vinci's workroom. She knocked on the door and entered without bothering to wait for a reply. "Buongiorno, Leo. Get your backside in gear and follow me. You're needed in the office."

"Ah! Buongiorno, bella," began da Vinci, looking up from his latest project.

"Stop it," Charlene raised a warning finger. "I'm just here to bring you to the office."

"And when my lady commands, how can I disobey," shrugged the artista, extracting himself from his protective gloves and headgear.

"I'm just the messenger," she told him sternly. "Jenkins called this pow wow, not me."

Da Vinci reached the door and stepped out, raising Charlene's hand to his lips as he did so. "But who can refuse such beauty when mixed with such authority?"

"Ugh," groaned Charlene, extricating her hand from his and shoving him in the direction of the office. "Behave!"

They joined Jenkins and Stone already flicking through a pile of books. Charlene eyeballed Jenkins again. "You told him what to look for, but not me? What if we'd got here first?"

"I find it difficult to tell someone something when heading in opposite directions," he retorted. "Besides, I thought you might be somewhat delayed in joining us. The Italian does tend to get distracted so easily."

"Oh, you did, did you?" Charlene's eyebrows rose and she set her arms akimbo. "Well let me tell you, _Mister_ Jenkins, you try that trick again and you'll find out I'm not quite as retired as you think I am!"

"Who is in here?" Jenkins shot back, throwing out an arm to da Vinci and the mirror. "Now if you don't mind, we have a Librarian to save! Again!"

Charlene folded her arms and walked over to the desk. She picked up one of the books that lay open there at a page. It was Ezekiel's clippings book, which he had given to Jenkins. She read the article, then passed it to da Vinci, looking up to Jenkins with grim eyes. Jenkins caught her look and returned it with a shrug and a nod. Stone looked between the two like a spectator at a tennis match.

"I feel like the only one here who hasn't got a clue what we're up against," he said, noting the face da Vinci pulled at the end of the article. "Somebody want to tell me why I seem to be the last man standing here?"

"Bunyips are deadly creatures," nodded Charlene. "Especially to the weak. That's why they go for women and children. Ezekiel Jones may be a World Class Thief, as he never tires of telling us, but he's still barely more than a boy. Why would the Library send him?"

"He'd seen them before," explained Jenkins. "As a boy, in fact. And in the company of your infamous Edward Wilde, no less. It seems his fate has been tied to the Library much longer than we guessed. It was Wilde that taught him his previous trade. Well, started him on it."

"On both his trades, it seems," murmured Charlene. "But that doesn't explain what happened. As far as I knew, Wilde never went on a mission involving bunyips."

"We now think it was a covert mission for the Serpent Brotherhood," sighed Jenkins. "Ezekiel described clearly the item Wilde used to quell the insurgence, and the item he used to steal it. Neither are in the Library or its catalogues. We can only assume he took them for the Brotherhood, or for his own personal purposes."

"When was this?" Charlene frowned.

"He first met Wilde in late two thousand," said Jenkins, levelling his gaze at Charlene. I'm not entirely sure when their last encounter was, but judging by the dates of the earthquakes in the area at that time, I'd say two thousand and one."

"That's four years!" Charlene gasped. "Four whole years before Wilde faked his death! And you're sure he was with the Brotherhood then?"

"As sure as I can be," nodded the Caretaker. "I questioned Mr Jones at length about the subject. He was unusually forthcoming on the matter."

"How does this help us find him?" Stone asked. "Or get him back for that matter. Get him back from where?"

"I don't know yet," admitted Jenkins, "but forewarned is forearmed. We set out to catch the bunyips using scrolls I had used myself many years previously. Miss Cillian came along to help focus the magic of the scrolls in view of the current background levels of wild magic still floating free. We chose our spot, near their latest kill. Mr Jones was to act as bait and draw them out. He would, using his ability to, as he claims 'outrun anything', lead the pack back to us and we would capture them in a magical corral. What we did not count on was how long this would take, and by the time he found the creatures, it was already dark. I presume he dropped or otherwise lost his torch, then subsequently lost his way. It was a dark night in unfamiliar ground. By the time we knew there was a problem and put up a light of our own, he was some distance away. He managed to turn towards us for a while, then we lost him."

"If it was that dark, how do you know where he was?" Stone turned his head to look fully at Jenkins. Part of him already knew the answer.

"We heard him," replied Jenkins, not meeting his gaze. "He was screaming. Then the screaming stopped. Then we found the creatures. We used the scrolls as planned, but between the magic used for that, for the light, and for the light she used to keep them back from us, Miss Cillian was physically exhausted. There was no sign of Ez... Of Mr Jones. The trauma of losing him the way we did, hearing the terror in his voice, has left her emotionally drained also. She must rest, but equally, if there is a way she can help bring about his safe return, she must be involved. She will only keep blaming herself otherwise."

"It's hardly her fault," began Charlene.

"I know whose fault this is," growled Jenkins.

"It's not yours either," replied the bygone receptionist.

"It was my plan," said the Caretaker, raising his white head to meet her gaze. "My plan. Nobody else's. So my fault."

"Nobody's fault," maintained Charlene. "Not Cassandra's, not yours, not even Ezekiel's: I mean, have you ever known a World Class Thief to drop his torch before? How could you predict that? And what about his phone: have you tried calling him?"

Jenkins sighed. "That's what he was using for a torch."

"Ah," sighed Charlene. "So what _do_ we have? Any sign of him at all where the creatures were?"

"None."

"That's good," Charlene nodded. "That's something anyway."

"How is it good?" Stone asked, still feeling like the last one to the party.

"It means they didn't eat him," answered da Vinci, breaking his silence for the first time. He turned and looked Jenkins full in the face. His old adversary met his gaze without flinching. "Describe the area. Give me detail. As much as you can recall."


	6. Episode 2: Chapter 2

**A/N: My sincere apologies, everyone, for the delay in this. As you all know, real life sometimes intervenes and mine is no exception. Both personal and professional life has been difficult for me recently, but I hope that that cloud has now lifted. I will try to catch up by posting new chapters as soon as they are completed. If that means more typos or the occasional continuity error, please do forgive me and let me know so I can fix them.  
**

 **Thank you to all of you who have reviewed this in the interim I will get round to replying to all those reviews personally, at least all those I can. As for the guest reviews and their reviewers: your comments, and encouragement, have been much appreciated. Thank you for your support.**

* * *

 **Episode 2: She's Tougher Than She Looks, Chapter 2**

Jacob Stone sat looking down at his girlfriend, watching her as she slept. Her brow creased in an unhappy dream. He couldn't help running a hand over his face in worry. He felt helpless. The Library was supposed to have four functioning Librarians and right now it felt like the only one still standing was sitting doing nothing. He couldn't focus on the book in his hand. He couldn't concentrate on the intricacies of the Australian mythologies. They had never cropped up in his other life. Either of his other lives. All he could focus on was the woman he had let into his battered, bruised and broken heart, and how powerless he was to help her. He was well and truly out of his comfort zone.

They had visited the place where Jones had disappeared, Charlene electing to remain with a still restless Cassandra. Jenkins had led the one remaining Librarian and his retired colleague out to 'take some pictures for a Library display', as they had explained to a few early rising and curious residents. The rock wall that enclosed one side of the depression was almost sheer, with a crack zigzagging down the centre of it from top to bottom. On either side, some hidden by dehydrated bushes, were Aboriginal rock paintings. Da Vinci dutifully photographed the images, and was now making copies in his work room, attempting to re-create the originals on paper or wood. The rock art had shown many creatures, including lizards and kangaroo and a snake, but oddest of all were the shapes Stone took to be humans.

The humanoid figures were stick-like; their long, thin bodies made more so by their even longer limbs. Small, faceless heads surmounted elongated necks. Some were drawn in red ochre, others in white or yellow, other a mixture of pigments. Some were as simple as a child's drawing, others were complex and decorated with lines and dots of paint. Some were bent low. Some were standing tall. Some appeared to be caught in the middle of some strange and unfamiliar dance. Some seemed to be lying, guardian-like, across the rock wall. Stone looked down at the book in his hand and sighed. He was used to old volumes. He could quite happily sit down and read his way through a treatise on the discovery and invention of different fixatives through the ages, or the differences between paints and stains and dyes. He would have otherwise been happy to read a folio describing the life and times of Vermeer in exquisite detail. Trying to pick out a general description of a specific picture he had seen for a short while, and had pictures of, from a book of general and vague descriptions of every creature or item ever painted on a rock wall in Australia, followed by a description of their place in the country's mythology, followed by the minuscule additions of Library-only knowledge, all while the woman he loved lay lamenting the loss of her friend, their friend really, if he was honest, was torture.

He hated feeling helpless. All his life, he had been the responsible one, the dependable one, the one all the family came to when they needed something, from a hammer to a headache and a hangover cure. He had been the wise old uncle to his nieces and nephews, the solid shoulder to cry on to his mother and sisters, the strong right arm in a fight to his brothers, cousins and, sometimes, sisters. The family protector, leader, and guardian of his own little flock. He had shouldered the burdens and the responsibilities. He had taken charge of the family when his father's health failed. He had stepped up.

What was he now?

Now, he was someone else. He was something else. He had receded further and further from his family, leaving the elder of his two younger brothers in charge of the rig to be helped, or hindered, by two of his best foremen and friends. Best friends of the old Jacob Stone, anyway: the new Jacob Stone would be a stranger to them. He had made new friends, formed a new family, even fallen in love. Magic must be real if that were possible! But where his old family had merely needed to nod his way to receive the aid or assistance they required, his new family were so far beyond his reach that they couldn't even ask. If he was so far from them as this, he thought, what good was he?

Charlene opened the door to the small room and met his eye. He was needed at last. He rose and headed out, appreciating the restrained warmth in the small pat on his shoulder as he passed by. Jacob heard the door click shut behind him and knew without turning that Charlene had taken his place by Cassandra's side. He nodded silently in the dull depths of the corridor, and made his way toward the office.

"What have we got?" Stone enquired as the office door swung shut behind him.

XXXX

The thin man laughed. "You're not dead, Ezekiel Jones."

"How do you know my name?" Ezekiel frowned, edging backwards, away from the man.

"We've been waiting for you," he replied, grinning from one side of his long, narrow face to the other. "We knew you'd be back one day."

"Back?" Ezekiel turned his head, instantly regretting the sudden movement. The landscape was just as unfamiliar as it had been before. "Back where? I've never been here before."

"Ah, you were only a tiny tot then," he shrugged. "Those memories fade in your world. They'll come back now you're here though."

"Where's here?" Ezekiel persisted. "Who are you?"

"I'm the eldest," grinned the man, rising slightly. "Come and meet the rest. Mind your head: it's still night time."

"The rest?" Ezekiel's confusion was growing. The more he asked, the less he understood. At the back of his mind, though, a memory pecked away at his brain. "The rest of what?"

"Not what, who," laughed the eldest. "The rest of your new family of course!"

XXXX

Cassandra stirred on the bed, her eyelids reluctant to open.

"Time to get up sleepyhead," drawled Charlene. "I know you're awake there."

"Charlene?" Cassandra murmured, her brows creasing.

"Oh, don't fret," the older woman sighed. "Lover boy was here right up until I kicked him out ten minutes ago. They have a lead. They needed his input."

Cassandra rubbed her eyes and sat up, slowly. She blinked at her companion, then her eyes went wide as everything came flooding back.

"If you're about to have another panic attack I should warn you, I don't go in for the paper bag method," said Charlene. "A short, sharp slap has always worked for me."

"I'm fine," replied Cassandra, though her shaking voice and arms were doing their best to contradict her. "What's the lead?"

"They think they've found something in the rock paintings, and in the history books. They need Stone to put it together."

"Really? Do they think they've found him?"

Charlene shrugged and pulled a face. "I don't know about that, deary, but I know they're closer than they were."

Cassandra swung her legs off the bed and stood up. She instantly sat back down again, her head spinning. Charlene sighed and moved to sit beside her on the bed. She handed the younger woman a book. It was the one Stone had been failing to read earlier.

"Now listen here, and listen good, Cassandra Cillian," began the retired receptionist. "You may very well be the most powerful being in this ridiculously powerful building, but the body cannot run on hopes and fears and magic alone. You have been lying here letting your magical side recharge, fair enough, but you're still human, honey. You still have to eat. When exactly was the last time you did that?"

"Umm..."

"Exactly," Charlene nodded. "Now don't you go trying to stand up again until you've had a decent meal and some coffee. I may not be the world's greatest cook, but I think I can manage a fairly edible tuna mayo sandwich and I know my coffee has never been beaten. You stay here and make yourself useful by reading this. I'll be back in two shakes of a minotaur's tail."

Cassandra opened her mouth to say thank you, but Charlene was already gone. She looked down at the book in her hands and let it fall open. None of it made sense to her. She sighed and thought about the bunyips, gathered round the base of the rock wall. In her hands the book shivered and pages rustled. She looked down. On the page before her was a pen and ink drawing of a bunyip. It was old, but it couldn't possibly be anything else. Besides, the chapter heading below it announced the name of the creature for all to see. Had she done that? Or had the Library? Or both of them together? She let the book rest open in her two palms and closed her eyes. She focussed her mind on Ezekiel. On his upside-down figure asleep on the chair in the reading room. On his grin when, once again, the lucky thief saved the day. On all the carefully worded admissions that could never have been used against him by any legal body. On all the poorly hidden grins when someone was about to fall foul of one of his practical jokes. On all the times she had found him hiding from one of the victims of said practical jokes. On his laugh. On his favourite phrases. On his screams.

She shuddered and opened her eyes, blinking away the tears that had formed. She was no use to Ezekiel or anyone else in an emotional mess. She looked down at the book. The pages were different, sure enough. Instead of a bunyip, a series of stickmen drawings graced the top of the page. She read the words below them, heralding the beginning of the new chapter. She was halfway through the page when Charlene returned.

"Charlene," she began, handing the open book to the older woman as she placed the tray she was carrying down on the bed. "What do you know about the mimi?"


	7. Episode 2: Chapter 3

**Episode 2: She's Tougher Than She Looks, Chapter 3**

Cassandra was halfway through the second half of the sandwich when the door burst open to admit Jacob, the sound of hurrying footsteps suggesting Jenkins and da Vinci were not far behind. He stopped short at the sight of Cassandra sitting up, sandwich in one hand and mug of coffee in the other. She smiled up at him and he grinned stupidly back.

"Oh, God, they're sickening," Charlene commented quietly from the other side of the room.

"We think we know what happened to Ezekiel!" Jacob blurted out, sitting down on the bed.

"I know what happened," Cassandra told him, at the same time.

"He's in a whole other dimension, that's why we couldn't find him!" Jacob continued, without pausing for breath.

"It's because we were out there at night time," Cassandra continued.

"But this is the best bit," Jacob grinned. "You'll never guess what spirited him away to this place!"

"They're Australian Aboriginal dreamtime spirits called mimis," Cassandra informed him, with an apologetic smile when his jaw dropped. "They're an Australian species of fairy folk."

"You have got to stop doing that to me!" Jacob huffed, deflating slightly. "I still think it's hilarious Jones literally got kidnapped by fairies. Fairies!"

"Fairy folk are not the cheerful, harmless tinkerbells you seem to think them, Mr Stone," sighed Jenkins, catching up. "I'm glad to see you are recovering, Miss Cillian, and taking some nourishment. No, fairies of all types are generally much more formidable than anyone ever thinks them, and the mimi are no exception."

"What exactly are you eating?" Jacob raised an eyebrow at the gradually decreasing sandwich in Cassandra's hand.

"Charlene made me a tuna mayo sandwich," she replied, waving the remains under his nose, "and coffee."

Stone's nose wrinkled. "Hmm. I'll pass, thanks."

"Watch it, cowboy!" Charlene called over. "I may be retired but I can still kick your..."

"As it happens," cut in Jenkins with a sharp look at Charlene, who smirked back unrepentant. "I believe we all have time for something more substantial before we can even attempt to recover Mr Jones. The dimensional door he went through, like so many of its ilk, works best at edges. The edges between two rocks, where it was found, and the edge between night and day, when he found it."

"How long until sunset in Australia?" Charlene asked.

"Three hours, forty two minutes," replied Jenkins. "This may require both of us. Mimi spirits can be highly reluctant to release their captives, and their captives can be equally reluctant to be released."

"What does that mean?" Stone looked round.

"It means that they prey on the emotional insecurities of their victims," supplied da Vinci, who had appeared at a more sedate pace behind Jenkins. "They convince the individual that they would be safer, better off or even just more loved and cared for with them. Oh they seem happy and cheerful enough, but as soon as you try to leave, well..."

The others stared expectantly at the painter. He shrugged expressively, his hands held out palms up.

"You've spent too much time in France," grumbled Jenkins.

"So in less than four hours we have to find a way to get into the mimi dimension, find Ezekiel, persuade him to come with us, and find our way out again?" Cassandra summarised. "And we might have to fight off angry mimis to do so?"

"More or less," nodded Jenkins.

"It's the 'less' part that worries me," added Stone. "The dimensional door only opens at dawn and dusk, and time always travels differently in other dimensions, doesn't it?"

"It does," Jenkins nodded. "That means we'll have to try and get him back here as quickly as you can. I don't know whether time there will run faster or slower, but generally speaking the less of it you spend there the better. If the doorway doesn't open when we get back to it, we'll just have to stay there and keep trying. We can't risk getting lost in there looking for another way out."

"Ah," Charlene nodded. "That's why you need me."

"We can't all go!" Cassandra cried. "What if we get stuck there and there's nobody to tell Flynn and Eve what's going on when they get back?"

"I do believe such newfangled technology as a pen and paper would solve that problem, Miss Cillian," sighed Jenkins. "However, I was not suggesting that we all go. Charlene and I will be needed to help deal with any aggressive responses from the mimis. Mr Stone and yourself will be needed to help track down Mr Jones. Da Vinci can stay."

"I assume you mean 'stay here'," commented Leonardo from the doorway.

"Don't tempt me," growled back Jenkins.

"Either way," cut in Charlene, "We could all do with a hot meal before all this kicks off and I've been meaning to try out that new round the clock Chinese place downtown, so I have two questions. Do we all drive over there and try to spend an hour being normal in public or do we order take out? And who's paying?"

XXXX

Ezekiel sat cross legged in the mouth of the cave. Around him, other thin figures sat, laughing and talking, in a wide circle. Someone somewhere was singing, and in the centre of the circle, a group of figures danced, all hunched over. As they sang and danced, magpies gathered, hopping up to the edge of the circle and into it, paying no heed to the others gathered there. Creatures of all kinds were gathering, all huddled close to the ground, but all drawing closer and closer to the great rock and the cave.

"What are they doing?" Ezekiel asked the eldest.

"They are getting ready to raise the sky," he replied, pointing upwards. "When it is raised high enough, we shall see the sun, and there will be true daylight, and it will be dawn."

"What happens when it gets to night again?" Ezekiel frowned, still confused.

"Then the sky will fall again and you will have been with us for a full day," smiled the eldest.

"Is that important?" Ezekiel asked, with a sinking feeling that he already knew the answer.

"Of course!" The eldest laughed. "For then you will truly become one of us, and shall live as a cherished part of our family forever!"

XXXX

"This is ridiculous," complained da Vinci, dropping his chopsticks in disgust. "How any sane person would have the time to spend learning how to use these infernal instruments is beyond me!"

"Oh, I don't know," smirked Charlene. "I've always found them easy enough to manipulate."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Da Vinci grumbled.

"Tsk, tsk, maestro," she grinned as another king prawn took a flying leap from da Vinci's grasp to the table. "Don't let the chopsticks grind you down."

"Trouble in paradise?" Jenkins enquired, seating himself at the head of the table and looking over to Charlene at his right. She glowered back at him and turned to Cassandra on her other side.

"How are you feeling now?" Charlene asked the redhead. "Better?"

"Much. Thank you," she returned, smiling. "I'm always hungry after..." Cassandra broke off, remembering where she was and glancing around.

"After an 'episode'?" Jenkins supplied.

"I guess," Cassandra shrugged, frowning. "I was hoping that I'd got rid of that word."

"You still might," Jacob smiled, reaching over to take her hand. "Every time you recover faster, don't you?"

"He's right," nodded Jenkins. "You're stronger than you think, and getting stronger still. It'll pass."

Cassandra nodded and looked back down to her meal, taking back her hand to continue eating. She knew Jacob would be sitting there, trying to read her features. Maybe the others would too. Maybe not. Charlene seemed to know what she was thinking half the time already, and usually Jenkins knew the other half. She wondered which of them had worked out just how terrified she was that, no matter how strong she was or might be, it wouldn't be enough to get Ezekiel back. She felt Charlene's hand on her arm and knew the answer.

By the time they returned to the Library, by Jenkins' calculations, they would be heading towards civil twilight in Alice Springs. They headed straight for the door, their plan of attack having been settled in the quietening restaurant. Jenkins checked the door settings and picked up a satchel he had made ready previously. Da Vinci retreated to the far side of the central desk. Jenkins picked up a sword and scabbard and attached them to his belt. The question of necessity died on Stone's lips when he saw Charlene do likewise.

"Colonel Baird usually just brings a gun..." Cassandra muttered.

"I've never trusted bullets much in magical dimensions," shrugged Jenkins, shaking his head.

"Me neither, hasn't stopped me bringing mine," retorted Charlene, flashing a holster and handgun. "Some of us prefer 'as well as' to 'instead of'."

"When did you...?" Cassandra began, pointing at the gun in confusion.

"Oh, honey, I've been doing this job far too long to be caught without _any_ weapons close at hand!" Charlene replied.

"A gun will not work properly in an extra-dimensional space: you know this!" Jenkins hissed. "Ever since we reattached the Library, I've had to remind Colonel Baird of the exact same thing. I did not expect to have to do so with you!"

"Hold your horses, sir knight, I know perfectly well a gun cannot be trusted in the Library. Better than most, believe me," argued Charlene. "I also know that we will be going to another part of this dimension both before and after we steal back our missing thief, and we don't know what kind of trouble we're going to meet there. I think it's safe to assume if we can leave the mimis dimension, they can too."

"True, but..."

"No buts. I have my sword. I have my knife. I will use them first in a fight, especially in the other dimension, but if I really need it, my gun is no use to me sitting in a safe at home."

"Do you always go about armed to the teeth, Charlene?" Cassandra asked as Jenkins gave up and spun the globe.

Charlene gave a dry laugh and turned to her with an odd smirk on her face. "I wasn't always a receptionist, dear."


	8. Episode 2: Chapter 4

**Episode 2: She's Tougher Than She Looks, Chapter 4**

Ezekiel watched as the dance drew to a close. All the creatures had gathered now. At least, all the ones he had seen so far. The magpies gathered sticks in their beaks and hopped up the sides of the great rock. The congregation of waiting creatures settled down and turned their eyes towards them. When the magpies reached the layer of low, dark cloud that had prevented Ezekiel seeing further up the rock face, they turned their sticks upwards and beat their wings. The cloud, as if it was made of solid foam, gave a little, then moved. At the first sign of upwards movement, a cheer arose from the waiting creatures. The mixture of calls and cries were diverse and odd to Ezekiel's ear, but there was no mistaking them for anything but a cheer. Again, the magpies fluttered. Again the cloud moved. Again the creatures cheered. Slowly, it began to dawn on Ezekiel where he was.

XXXX

Cassandra and Jenkins led the way through the quiet streets of Alice Springs at a much faster rate than their first journey. They reached the riverbed in half the time and Cassandra immediately turned north. A hand reached out and pulled her back.

"We agreed that I would go first, Miss Cillian," said Jenkins sternly. "You and Mr Stone follow me and Charlene will bring up the rear."

"But if we need light..." Cassandra started.

"We have flashlights," Jenkins reminded her. "We came prepared, remember. We know what we're facing now. If, and when, we need your assistance, I will let you pass. Not before."

Cassandra sighed and felt Jacob's arm encircle her waist. She let him propel her forwards, eventually wrapping her fingers through his and keeping pace beside him. Before darkness had fully fallen they were at the cracked rock face, the sand rising behind them like a wave.

"What now?" Stone asked tracing the line of the split between the two rocks with his flashlight.

"Now we try to go through," trilled Charlene with a wry smile. "Just imagine it's platform nine and three quarters."

"Platform what?" Stone frowned.

"Just assume you're going through it," translated Cassandra, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

"Through that tiny crack in the rock," added Charlene.

"That's not helping," sighed Jenkins, and walked through the rock.

"Woah," Stone blinked. "Okay, that worked."

"Magic has a tendency to do that," quipped Charlene, shoving him forward and through the dimensional door. She turned to Cassandra. "Your turn, kiddo. I'll be right behind you."

Cassandra winced and walked forward, putting out a hand, tentatively, in front of her. The rock wall felt oily and sludgy around her hand. And cold. It felt so cold. She felt Charlene's guiding hand propel her forward and the world instantly became a blur of darkness. For a moment if felt like she was swimming through treacle, then she landed on the cold sand with a thump. Picking herself up she looked around her. It was dark. She called out. There was no answer. She called out Jacob's name, Jenkins', Charlene's, Ezekiel's. Nothing.

Alone. Blind. Helpless.

No, not helpless. Not that. Not blind either. Not if she didn't want to be. She focussed on her hand, holding it out palm up just as she had that first time so very long ago. Light blossomed there, filling her vision and flooding the surroundings. She blinked and let her eyes get used to the difference. She was in a cave. Paintings adorned the walls. They showed kangaroos and koalas and emus and wombats and every indigenous Australian creature imaginable. They also showed the mimis.

With the little ball of light rotating in her hand, Cassandra examined the paintings. It confounded her how such a simplistic collection of lines and dots could possibly communicate the very essence of a creature, and yet it did. It was almost as if these were the originals and those inhabiting the mysterious island had been called to life directly from their lines.

A sound echoed behind her. The sound of a tumbling stone. She turned.

"Charlene?" Cassandra called, directing the light of her hand into the darkness. It illuminated not the erstwhile receptionist, but a small, hunched over kangaroo. Cassandra frowned, letting her eyes examine the creature in more detail. It was not like any kangaroo she had seen before. It seemed to be almost constructed out of lines and dots of ochre. And yet.

And yet.

Somehow it seemed to be more like a kangaroo than any she had previously encountered. It turned its head, looking up at her through doleful eyes. She moved towards it. It hopped away a short distance. She stopped. It looked back. Suddenly she understood. She followed.

Gradually, another light began to suffuse the tunnel, for it was a tunnel they were now in. The way had broadened from its almost imperceptible entrance in the cave, but there could be no mistaking its definitive purpose. Cassandra followed the creature and its path, always heading towards the light, until finally an opening became visible. Then she charged forwards, her magical torch disappearing, forgotten, in her haste. She slowed as she approached the edge of the cavern, keeping low and close to the wall. She could hear cheering beyond.

She edged her way forward until the light was no longer a glare, and peered out. Crowds of creatures were gathered around the mouth of the cave, all looking up. All bore the unmistakable ochre signs of belonging to this dimension. All but one.

"Ezekiel!" Cassandra hissed. The figure never turned. She edged closer and called his name quietly again. No response. She stepped right up to the edge of the cave and tried again. No answer.

The figure was standing, looking upward, not far from her. His back was towards her but she was sure it was him. She cast a glance around everyone else. All the other creatures were also staring up at the sky. She edged out from the cover of the cave mouth and reached out a hand to her immobile friend. He didn't move. Neither did the other creatures.

Emboldened by their stasis, Cassandra walked out and around to face Ezekiel. She drew his face down to meet her eyes and instinctively drew back. The eyes that met hers were grey. Not the grey of a normal iris, complete with black pupil in its centre, but the grey of the clouds above. Clouds which were, she noted, gradually getting further and further away. What would happen, she wondered, when the sun finally broke through? What would happen when they returned?

This was uncharted territory for Cassandra, but her options were few. She could either wait and see if the others found her before she too became mesmerised by the rising cloud, or she could try to drag an unresponsive Ezekiel back into the cave, of she could try to snap him out of it. It didn't seem like the others were anywhere nearby, and she didn't fancy risking herself to the apparently hypnotic power of the landscape, so she reached out, focussing her power, and lifted him off his feet. Slowly, steadily, in case too sudden a movement should arouse suspicion, she moved him back into the shelter of the cave. At the moment his view was cut off from the sky, Ezekiel crumpled

Cassandra rushed to the young man's side, checking his pulse and breathing with the automation of any long term hospital employee. His eyes were closed. Half afraid of what she might find, she opened them. The pupils were wide and dark, but they were there. She patted his face and called his name frantically until slowly a low groan began to resound in his chest.

"Ezekiel, wake up!" Cassandra hissed.

"Wha...?" Ezekiel groaned and blinked, looking around him blindly.

Realising the mouth of the cave was behind her, Cassandra brought up another little ball of light from her palm. "Ezekiel, it's me."

The thief peered at her blearily. "Who're you?"

"It's Cassandra," she persisted, worry creeping back into her voice again. "From the Library."

"C'sandra," mused the bemused boy. "Nope. Dun't ring any bells. Are you from my school?"

"School?" Cassandra frowned. "No, Ezekiel, I'm your friend. We work together."

"Work?" Lines formed along Ezekiel's forehead. "I dun't have a job. Too young. Still in school."

"No, you left school long ago," Cassandra persisted. "You work for the Library now, like me."

Ezekiel's frown deepened. "Are you from my school?"

Cassandra sighed. This was going to be more difficult than they had imagined. If only Jenkins were here. Or Charlene. Surely one of them would know what to do. Hoping proximity at least played a part, she led the confused young man away from the cave mouth and deeper into the cavern.

XXXX

"How can she be missing? You were supposed to be last!" Jenkins yelled, throwing up his hands.

"How should I know? You went through. Genius here went through. Cassandra went through. I went through. That order, that spacing, more or less. There is no way she should be anywhere but here!"

"Could she be stuck in the rock wall?" Jacob asked, trying to calm the argument raging between the two veterans.

"No!" Jenkins and Charlene yelled together.

"It's highly unlikely," added Jenkins.

"And incredibly fatal!" Charlene spat, turning on Jenkins once again. "Do you honestly think I would have left her there?"

"Okay, okay," shouted Stone. "If she's not on the other side, and she's not in the middle, she must be here somewhere, right?"

"Well, I guess so," admitted Charlene, in a tone that suggested she wasn't happy to admit anything yet. "But magical doorways don't just up and move at the drop of a hat, and they certainly don't get up and move back again afterwards."

"But they are magical, correct?" Stone asked, pointing a finger at Charlene.

"Again: I guess so," she shrugged, "but I don't see what this has to do with..."

"I think I have an idea," continued Stone, holding up and hand to stop Jenkins' reply. "Jenkins, you said you thought you knew where they might be holding Ezekiel?"

"Near the central landmark," Jenkins nodded with a sniff of indignation. "The largest rock here. Over that way."

Stone followed the direction of Jenkins' outstretched arm and saw the familiar slopes of red rising from the dust.

"Uluru," he muttered. "Then that's where we're headed. Come on."


	9. Episode 2: Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you to my guest reviewer. I hope it was worth the wait.  
**

* * *

 **Episode 2: She's Tougher Than She Looks, Chapter 5**

The red rock of Uluru seemed to grow as they drew closer. The dull, diffuse light turned its sides to blood red, but it wasn't until they had covered half the distance that Charlene noticed the other difference.

"Is it just me," she mused never once breaking her stride, "or is that thing shorter than usual?"

"I ain't an expert, but it definitely don't look right," murmured Stone.

"Observations, people," sighed Jenkins disparagingly. "You have seen, but have not observed."

"Care to share, oh high and mighty one?" Charlene drawled, glaring daggers at the snowy head in front of her.

Jenkins cast her a look, but wisely refrained from commenting. Instead he pointed to the top of the landmark. "If you had been watching the top of the rock, as I have, you would have see that it is gradually getting higher the closer we get." Stone raised a finger and took a breath, but the old man shut him down with a look. "No, it is not merely because we are getting closer, Mr Stone," he continued. "If you observe the features at the edge of the rock, where the outline is clearer, you will see that they have been gradually changing. The rock is not simply getting bigger because we are nearing it, indeed it is not increasing in height at all. It is merely appearing to do so because the sky, I believe, is getting higher."

"The sky is getting higher?" Charlene raised an eyebrow. "Anyone care to run that by me again?"

"No, he's right," gasped Stone, who had turned to face the mountain as Jenkins had been speaking. He raised a hand and pointed at the top corner of the rock. "That boulder wasn't visible before."

"One's genius backed up by a boulder," muttered Jenkins. "Huzzah!"

"Okay, so the sky is rising," said Charlene, waving a dismissive hand at his mumblings. "Stop moaning like some maniacally depressed robot and explain how."

"Does nobody read in this job?" Jenkins threw up his hands. "This is a dimension, possibly _the_ dimension, from which the creatures and legends of Australian mythology came forth. The mimis, the bunyips, yes, and the dreamtime. The creation myth of the continent. One of the stories of which recounts the first dawn. Before the dawn, the sky hung low and dark over the land. The plants only grew so high, and the animals were forced to go about hunched over, lest they knock their skulls against the sky itself. The land was dark. Birds could not fly, only hop from one place to another. Until eventually, the magpies banded together and said 'let us try to move this sky that holds us down. Let us take twigs in our beaks and use the power of our wings to push the sky upwards, as far as it will go.' And so they did. They each took a sturdy stick in their beak and flew upwards, all around the edges of Uluru, in the centre of the land. The sky was stubborn, and they found they could only move it a little at a time, and only if they acted together. They flew up together, therefore, and pushed the sky upwards. Then they rested on the slopes of the rock and, when they had regained their strength, flew further up again. They repeated this manoeuvre over and over again, until they reached the top of the great rock of Uluru. There, with their feet on its hard surface, they gave the sky one great push upwards, and it flew up into the heavens and light flooded over the land. Thus the sun dawned on Australia for the first time, and here, it seems, it has done so for every dawn ever since."

XXXX

Cassandra dragged Ezekiel deeper into the cave system, away from the light of the outside. When she felt she was safely away from prying eyes, she caused the faint bauble of light in her palm to grow and float upwards. The regressing boy shrank back from the sudden glare, his arm up to shield himself. She sighed and reached out to him, but he shrank away from her too.

"Ezekiel," she hissed, "It's me. It's Cassandra."

"Don't wanna go back," he whined back, showing no signs of recognition. "Don't wanna go back there."

"You won't have to," she said, reaching for his arm again. "It's okay, Ezekiel. I'm here to take you home."

"No, you're tying to take me away," he complained, squirming out of her grasp. "You're trying to take me back there. I don't wanna go."

"No!" Cassandra cried, grabbing both his hands. "No, Ezekiel, I'm here to take you home!"

"I am home!" Ezekiel yelled, twisting out of her grip and disappearing back into the darkness in the direction of the cave mouth.

Cassandra stood, shell shocked, for a moment, her mouth hanging open like a gaping fish, her eyes threatening tears. Then she darted back into the darkness after him, the ball of light following her like the ghost of a helium balloon.

XXXX

"What now, Sir Knight," enquired Charlene, peering over the edge of a boulder with Jenkins and Stone beside her. They had reached the foot of Uluru, and found the crowd of creatures around the cavern.

"Will you stop that," hissed Jenkins, watching the crowd with interest. "You know perfectly well..."

"I know nothing of the kind, I'm merely the receptionist," smiled Charlene primly. It was the sort of smile that sharks grew wary of.

"We both know that's not true," muttered Jenkins.

"What's wrong, forget your faithful charger?" Charlene trilled.

A movement in the midst of the gathering caught their attention. Ezekiel's form flashed into view, then was hidden amongst the throng of creatures. A flash of red hair followed him and, with a cry, Stone was out from behind the boulder and running towards them.

"Oh no wait," quipped Charlene, with a wry smile. "There he is. How the hell did the Colonel get the three of them this far?"

"Oh, you know, the usual," sighed Jenkins, standing up and stretching his stiff joints. "Plan for worst, hope for the best. Walk softly and carry a very sharp stick, or, in this case, sword. Come on."

XXXX

Ezekiel ran out of the cave and into the very heart of the mass of creatures gathered there. He was instantly surrounded by the mimis and, as they turned their smiling faces from him to his pursuer, Cassandra saw the happy smiled turn into jagged, toothy frowns. She stopped short, the bubble of light bobbing to a halt above her. It disappeared with a faint pop. As the mimis advanced, she could feel the air around her crackle with defensive magic. Just as when she had first used her ability as herself, against the giant, the higher background magic of dimension she was in fed her aura and strengthened her.

A pale blue light began to spread outward from her form and the mimis paused. They spread out around her, edging sideways to form a circle. The thinning ranks in front of her gave Cassandra a clear view of Ezekiel again. Two mimis had their arms around him and his face was turned away from her. The gap in the crowd revealed something else too, though: a trio of familiar faces heading her way, with Jacob out in front.

Hope blossomed again. The pale blue light brightened and widened. She closed her eyes and concentrated. The light around her shimmered and grew brighter still. It became so bright she could see it though her eyelids. All the time, she concentrated on the magic, twisting it up like a bow string, or a rubber band. She let it go.

A disc of light shot outwards from her waist, knocking every creature in its radius flat on the ground. It stopped short of the advancing reinforcements. Jacob skidded to a halt at the edge of the circle, gasping for breath. Jenkins and Charlene caught up with him. Charlene was the first to walk into the carpeting of bodies. She made her way to the immobile pile of familiar clothes not far from its centre and bent down.

"Don't worry, you haven't killed him," she called over to the motionless and pale faced Cassandra. "He's unconscious though, and so are the rest of them, I guess."

Jacob picked his way through the creatures to his girlfriend's side, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. Slowly she let her arms move from her sides to enfold him.

"You had me worried," he murmured into her ear.

"Likewise," she whispered. "I thought... I thought they might get to you like they did to Ezekiel. And then you might forget me, like he has."

"He's what?" Stone frowned.

"He's forgotten us," she told him. "All of us. He thinks he's a child again. That this is his home."

"Jenkins?" Stone looked back over his shoulder. "Can these guys wipe memories?"

The old man, now hoisting Ezekiel up into his arms just as he had Cassandra not so very long ago, shook his head. "Erase, no. Confuse though: that much they can do. And, like a child who has faced some terrible trauma, if those memories are repressed for long enough, they can take decades to resurface."

The bundle of clothes in Jenkins' arms stirred. "Don't wanna go," it murmured sleepily. "Wanna stay here."

"You heard the boy," hissed one of the mimi, pushing itself up into a crouching position and facing Jenkins. "He is one of us. He wishes to stay here. You cannot take him."

"He is one of us," Jenkins retorted. "We can, and we will."

The mimi hissed, drawing back into the crouch, ready to spring. It felt something cold and sharp against its long, thin neck and paused.

"Go ahead, punk," drawled Charlene lazily. "Make my day."

XXXX

The trip back to the doorway was uneventful enough. With most of the rest of its companions still unconscious, the mimi had not led a counterattack to retrieve their prey. They reached the familiar split rock as the syrupy dawn light spilled over the red rock of Uluru. Once again, Jenkins led the way. This time, however, Cassandra was escorted through with Charlene on one side of her and Jacob on the other.

The triumphant return to the Library was muted somewhat by the still confused murmurings and complaints from Ezekiel, and the sheer exhaustion that had begun to weigh heavily on them once they attained the relative safety of Alice Springs. If any of the denizens had looked twice at their strange cavalcade, they had been too tired to notice. Charlene had fallen back to bring up the rear, and was the last through the door when they finally returned home. She closed the door behind her, signalled to the waiting da Vinci to remove the clips, and leant back with a sigh of relief.

"Tea, Leo," she ordered, standing upright again. "We'll be in the first aid room."

"No," called back Jenkins. "Bring it up to Mr Jones' rooms. The more personal and familiar the surroundings the better."

"Shouldn't we wake him up here then?" Cassandra suggested. "This is the room he's spent the most time in. It's the one he's known the longest."

Jenkins paused, then nodded his head. "I take your point. Let's have the tea in here then. Mr Stone, if you wouldn't mind fetching a blanket and pillow, preferably his own. Miss Cillian, if you would clear the desk."

With a wave of Cassandra's hand, the central desk was cleared, its contents stacked in neat piles on the floor or neighbouring desks. Jenkins laid the young man out on the wooden surface. Stone returned soon after with the pillow and blanket, and Charlene and Cassandra gathered comfortable chairs for everyone. Leo returned with the tea service and together they waited in silence.

The hours ticked by. Cassandra and Stone's heads were nodding. Charlene was sound asleep. Jenkins sat straight and tall, reading. Da Vinci lounged on the stairs, sketching. A movement from the central desk brought their attention back to the patient, and they were on their feet. The noise of their movements woke the others and they crowded round the prone figure.

Ezekiel blinked blurry eyes up at the peering, worried faces.

"How are you feeling?" Jenkins asked calmly.

"Like I've just done more running than Rincewind," groaned Ezekiel. "I'm starved! What time is it, Jenkins? Is it too late to order pizza?"

"Well," laughed Charlene with one brow raised. "I guess that answers that question!"


	10. Episode 3: Chapter 1

**Episode 3: Annoying and Cryptic, Chapter 1**

"This is beautiful," mused Cassandra, running her fingers over the artfully crafted frame.

Within the frame, an illuminated manuscript displayed a dozen lines of poetry. The three verses, all carefully penned onto the vellum, each bore a colourful first letter the full height of the verse entire. Gold leaf picked out the edges of scrolling serifs. Green leaves and red berries picked out on the pale parchment gave the document a wintery feel. Their curling vines and spiked edges were echoed in the dark wooden frame to such an extent that the one could only possibly have been done to match the other. A movement behind her told Cassandra that her hearer had joined her by the frame.

"Aye, it is," nodded Flora. "'Twas an anniversary gift from my third husband. He made it himself."

"Really?" Cassandra turned to the old woman with wide eyes. "He made the whole thing, frame too?"

"You have a keen eye, child," she replied with a smile. "Aye the frame too. Not the words though: those he borrowed from another. He never was good with words of his own. Excellent at choosing the right words of others though."

"He must have been very artistic," sighed Cassandra. "Very talented."

"By that point he had had a lot of time to practise," grinned Flora, nodding at the manuscript again. "In the years he spent here, he helped restore many of the old books and scrolls that haunt our little library."

"So he was a librarian, too," laughed Cassandra.

"Who was?" Jacob asked, elbowing his way through a door with his arms full of scrolls.

Cassie looked round, her eyes brightening. "Flora's third husband," she said, taking some of the scrolls from him and helping to spread them out on the desk. "He didn't just buy her an anniversary gift, he made her one. Well, that one anyway."

Jacob followed her gaze and he walked over to the frame. He gave a short laugh and read the poem aloud.

" _When I first met you I knew that I had come at last home,  
Home after wandering, home after long-puzzled searching,  
Home after long being wind-born, wave-tossed, night-caught,  
Long being lost.  
_

 _And being with you was normal and needful and natural  
As sleeping or waking; and I was myself, who had never  
Been wholly myself; I was walking and talking and laughing  
Easily at last._

 _And the air was softer, and sounds were sharper,  
And colours were brighter, and the sky was higher,  
And length was not measured by milestones, and time was not measured by clocks...  
And this end was a beginning...  
And these words are the beginning of my thanks._"

"It has been a long time since I heard someone read those words aloud," murmured Flora, watching Jacob closely. "You read them well, like you mean them."

Jacob shrugged. "I probably read more poetry than most guys these days. I know this one. Been reading it a bit myself lately," he glanced over at Cassie. "It kinda... rings a bell, you know?"

Cassandra rolled her eyes and looked down at the table, but not fast enough to hide the smile and the blush that began spreading across her cheeks. "Which, um, which anniversary was it?"

"Oh, one of the big ones," shrugged Flora, shaking her head. "It was a long time ago."

"You must have been together a long time," said Jacob, joining the two woman at the table.

"Never long enough," smiled Flora, "but enough of that. You are here for the land's history, not mine. Here, give me any scrolls you can't read and I'll translate for you."

They filed through the scrolls, passing any illegible items over to the Cailleach and dividing the rest between them. By the time they had finished perusing and taking notes from their own individual piles, Flora still had another of equal size before her.

"Go, eat," she said, waving them away. "You're no help here and more a hindrance anyway. There's broth on the stove in the kitchen. You know your way. Mhairi will be about down there at this time of day if you need anything."

They left the room, hand in hand, with another glance at the exquisitely ornate frame and its contents on the way. When they had put a good distance between them and the door, Jacob stopped. He opened a door nearby and led them into a beautifully decorated room, with tall windows overlooking the water of the sea loch. The weather had been calm for a few days here, and the water lapped peacefully by the shore, shining in the sunlight like it was strewn with diamonds.

"Here's a funny story," he began, drawing Cassie close to him by the window. "Did Flora happen to mention when her third husband made that particular gift for her?"

"No, why?" Cassandra replied, her brows knotting.

"It looks old right?" Jacob persisted.

"Well, yes," said Cassandra. "It was illuminated ink on parchment, gold leaf and all. The sort of thing you see in ancient bibles and such."

"That sort of thing, yes," Stone nodded, "but not. That poem is by A. S. J. Tessimond, a twentieth century writer. There's no way it could have been done before the nineteen twenties at the earliest! Tessimond didn't even publish a book of poetry until nineteen thirty four!"

"So what? He worked on restoring old manuscripts," Cassandra pointed out with a laugh. "He would have known all the right techniques. Maybe that's how they met and he wanted to make her something that would remind her of that too."

"Oh," Stone seemed to deflate a little. "I guess that would kind of explain it. She must have been old when they met though. I wonder how long they were married for."

"Old people are allowed to fall in love too you know," Cassie teased.

"No, I know," Jacob floundered, "I just meant... She said it was an anniversary present, for one of the big anniversaries. Well, that's what? Twenty five years? Forty? Fifty? If she was then as she is now..."

"So her husband probably lived to a ripe old age," laughed Cassie. "So what? Did you actually drag me in here to gossip about our host's love life? She's nearly a thousand years old: it's gonna take you a while!"

"No, I," Jacob started, looking about him as if searching the room for words. "I didn't drag you in here to talk about that. I didn't... This whole conversation has just not gone the way I planned, at all. You do realise that?"

Cassie giggle and pulled a face that answered clearly in the affirmative.

"I just," he sighed and looked away again. When he looked back, he met her gaze steadily. "I just wanted to tell you that that poem back there: it's exactly how I feel about you. I was lost until I met you. I have never felt so completely myself, so at home, until we finally got together. And I don't ever want that to end. I want to spend the rest of my life making your world better. Making you smile. I want to build a home with you, Cassie. A family. I love you. You are my whole world. My everything. Will you marry me? Please?"

Cassandra's gaze dropped. The soft sound of the waves filled the expanding silence. She took in a long deep breath and let it escape slowly from her lips.

"Cassie?" Jacob said softly.

"No," she replied, not looking up. "I know we haven't really talked about this, and maybe we should have, but no. I don't want to get married. I love you, I do, but I just don't want to get married. To anyone. I..."

"I don't understand," said Jacob, his voice quiet and raw. "I thought..."

"You thought because we did a spell that said we were true loves, we would settle down, get married and raise a brood of children in a little house with a white picket fence and we would all live happily ever after."

"No, I..." he began.

"I don't want the white picket fence, Jacob," she continued. "I don't see the point in a piece of paper that proves we love each other. We know we love each other. Why do we need a huge fuss to tell a ton of people we hardly ever see will probably never see much more of ever again that we love each other. Everyone that really matters already knows, at least on my side. I just... I just don't see what's wrong with the way things are? You spend most of your time at my place anyway. Why not just move in? It makes more sense than spending hours of planning and buckets of stress and ridiculous quantities of money planning an event that might not even happen if we don't also manage to save the world while planning it. Probably several times!"

He stepped away from her, one hand running thoughtfully over his chin and his eyes downcast. She moved towards him, but stopped at a gesture from him. "No," he said. "I just... I gotta think about this. Let things settle."

Cassandra watched him turn and leave the room. Only once the door swung shut behind him did the panic start to rise again. She sat down on the windowsill and focussed on controlling her breathing. The sough of the waves painted gentle, soothing patterns on her eyelids. Gradually, her breathing returned to normal, following the constant rhythm of the waves. Only then did she let the tears begin to fall.


	11. Episode 3: Chapter 2

**Episode 3: Annoying and Cryptic, Chapter 2**

"I don't see why I have to stay here," grumbled Ezekiel, his arms full of yet another pile of books as he made his way down the stairs to Jenkins' desk. "You know every book in the Library, you don't need me here. There are whole rooms full of uncatalogued, unknown scrolls, books and manuscripts over there and nobody but our very own Benedick and Beatrice to sift through them. They probably spend half their time distracted by each other anyway. They need my steadying and calming influence."

"Hah!" Jenkins replied, not bothering to look up as the pile of books thumped down on his desk. "You hate research in any shape or form. You hate the cold, and I happen to know that those rooms are kept at a temperature you would definitely put in that category. I have heard you called many things in the time that I have known you, Mr Jones, and steadying and calming have never once been mentioned. No, I do not think you're efforts would benefit Mr Stone and Miss Cillian. Nor do I think you would spend your time in Dunvegan filing through ancient manuscripts. You forget: I know you, Ezekiel Jones. I know exactly why you want to 'help out' at the castle and I know exactly from whom you would obtain your 'research'!"

Ezekiel picked a book off the top of the pile and waved it at the old man. "I resent the implication that I have not listened to a word you have said on that matter. I listened. I listened very closely."

"And then went ahead and ignored everything you'd listened to," added Jenkins. He plucked the book out of the young man's hand, turned it round, and handed it to him again right way up. "That which I cannot achieve by persuasion, I must achieve by force. You're staying. Go read it. Where I can see you, please."

Jones took a breath to prepare for his next riposte when the back door slammed open and Stone stormed though. His face was set in a downcast grimace of anger and pain. He neither noticed nor looked for anyone else's presence. Both men watched the newest arrival turn and ascend the stairs two at a time. He disappeared wordlessly into the shelves of the mezzanine and after a long pause, the door of the reading room slammed shut. Ezekiel looked back to Jenkins.

"Trouble in paradise?" Jones wondered aloud. "I guess Cassandra's stuck with all that work on her own now. She really could do with some help, and maybe a shoulder to cry on too."

"Hmm," Jenkins murmured watching him. "As sure as I am that Miss Cillian can cope with this and multitude of other setbacks that may come her way, an extra pair of hands would help the task along."

"Exactly!" Ezekiel cried in triumph.

"Indeed," murmured Jenkins, raising his head in the direction of the Library itself. "Charlene!"

"Oh, come on!" Jones complained loudly. "Really?"

Charlene elbowed her way through the office doors, a towel in her hands. "You bellowed, milord?"

Jenkins rolled his eyes and tipped his head towards the back door.

"Oh, come on! Really?" Charlene echoed. Ezekiel looked at Jenkins, a smug grin plastered all over his face, and extended an arm towards Charlene. The retired receptionist dumped the towel on the central desk and continued towards Jenkins. "I thought we agreed two people would be enough for there?"

"We did," Jenkins explained, ever patient. "One has returned."

"Chuckles or Sabrina?" Charlene frowned.

"Let us simply say," said Jenkins, "if you are staying, you may wish to forego the former nom de guerre in said gentleman's presence."

She winced. "Well, that's not good. Other shoe?"

"Probably," Jenkins shrugged. "He was not particularly communicative, but if one had to guess."

"Oh, joy," groaned the older woman. "And you're sending me to go and make sure missy is fine and dandy and keeping up with the workload, right? You do realise I don't do tears and tantrums. We got enough of those from Flynn and it was far better to just stand back and let him get it out of his system. Leave them be: they'll be fine once they've calmed down and talked it through sensibly."

"Miss Cillian may benefit from your steadying and calming influence," replied Jenkins, ignoring the daggers being glared at him by Ezekiel. "I'm sure the ladies of the house are used to dealing with tears and tantrums, but they will still need an extra pair of hands with the work."

"You go then," smirked Charlene, folding her arms and meeting Jenkins glare. "You're a much more experienced archivist than I am."

Jenkins held her gaze. "You know perfectly well I cannot. Ezekiel is equally unavailable. I refuse to ask da Vinci. Even you must agree that he would be a disastrous choice of personage in the circumstances. That leaves you. I do not see why that seems to be a problem."

"Oh, it's not a problem, _Galeas_ ," she replied, a sly smirk curling one side of her lip. "I just wondered what excuse you'd try to use this time."

Jenkins narrowed his eyes at her, folding his arms and holding her gaze. The silence dragged out between the two, reaching the point at which even cats would have given up and turned away. Standing to one side, his eyes shining with merriment, Ezekiel watched the mute battle of wills. Finally Charlene sighed. The folded arms dropped.

"Fine," she grumbled. "If I come back from that castle covered in purple warts, I expect you to persuade your..." Jenkins' eyes snapped up to Charlene's again and her smirk broadened before she continued. "To persuade your witchy friends to fix it."

Smiling like butter wouldn't melt, Charlene sauntered over to the back door and out. Ezekiel took a step closer and leant conspiratorially against Jenkins' desk.

"You know what three words really stood out there for me?" Ezekiel said, grinning up at the old man. "Aside from the wealth of unspoken ones in that little look there."

"I have neither interest nor necessity to know," he murmured in reply.

"And yet I feel I have both," quipped the thief. "Now what were they again? Oh yeah: 'excuse' and 'this time'!"

Jenkins looked up at the eager face and groaned inwardly, silently cursing Charlene. He pointed to the book in Ezekiel's hand, then to a chair nearby. "Book. Sit. Read. Go!"

XXXX

Cassandra looked down at the weighty tome on the table lectern and sighed. She pressed her fists into the table itself on either side and shut her eyes. It made no difference. Open or shut, all she could see was the look on Jacob's face when he realised she was going to say no. She thought explaining might have softened the blow somewhat, but it hadn't seemed to. If anything, the more she explained, the more hurt he looked. Maybe she should have brought it up sooner. Maybe she should have said something else, something other than just 'no'. Something like 'do we have to' or 'maybe one day' or 'not yet'. But was it fair to say 'not yet' if what she meant was 'never'? A hand fell on her shoulder. She straightened and looked round. Flora was looking up at her, her kind old eyes reading the troubles in her heart and mind as clearly as she read the archaic scrawl on scrolls that were utterly unintelligible to Cassandra. She looked down at the old woman, shrunken and frail from her excessive years, and wondered just how old she really was.

"Explain it to me," said the Cailleach. "Then, perhaps, you'll be better able to explain it to him."

"I just... I don't see the point," Cassandra began, turning and leaning back against the table. "We know how we feel about each other, so does everyone else. We practically live together already anyway. What difference does a piece of paper and a different name make?"

"You're not religious then, child?" Flora asked, leading her over to a settle by the wall. "Were you ever?"

Cassandra shook her head. "My parents were both scientists. They brought me up to see the real world. The scientific, mathematical, predictable universe. They believed in things that could be proven, even if we hadn't quite managed it yet. Believing in the Higgs boson was the closest they got to faith."

"And you feel the same?" Flora's keen eyes watched her.

"I guess so," shrugged the redhead, turning her gave away from those eyes. "I mean, I believe in magic, but that's not so much belief as knowledge. I know magic is real. I know monsters are real, and myths, and gods and goddesses, and heroes and villains... I don't see why that should change how I feel about marriage, though."

"May I ask you a little about your parents, Cassandra?" Flora asked, and Cassandra nodded in silence. "Were they married, themselves?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"Did they love each other?"

"I think so," Cassandra frowned.

"But you're not sure. Why is that?" Flora took both of the younger woman's hands in hers and turned her towards her.

"I... I guess I'm not really sure that they loved me. I know I, that is, my tumour, was a huge disappointment to them. As soon as I was diagnosed, it was like I was already dead. Like some project in a Petri dish that had been contaminated and ruined. I guess I always saw them more as professional partners than romantic ones after that."

"Then why do you think they got married?" Flora persisted.

"Oh, I know why," replied Cassandra, looking up at last. "I remember them taking about it one year. One of their colleagues had joined us for dinner and was asking what they intended to do for their anniversary. My mother told him that they weren't doing anything, that they never did. There didn't seem much point since they only married for legal reasons in the first place."

Flora nodded. "And this is your only experience of marriage? No grandparents? No uncles and aunts? No friends or family friends?"

Cassandra shook her head. "I didn't really have many friends before the Library came along. None before the tumour. They would have been 'distractions', according to my parents. My mother had a brother and sister up in Canada, but we never really spoke to them. I don't even know if either one was married. My father never had any family that he spoke of. The only friends they had were colleagues. I don't recall ever meeting any spouses, if any of them had any."

"And what about your young man?" Flora asked, changing direction. "Have you met his family?"

"Well, yes..." Cassandra looked away again.

"Were none of them married?"

"His parents," admitted Cassandra, "but I got the impression it wasn't exactly happily ever after for them either."

Flora laughed. "Remove that idea from your head right now, my girl. Marriage isn't about 'happily ever after'. Nothing is. None of us get to sail through life without a care in the world. Marriage simply means that when those cares become too great, you have someone to help you bear them."

"But we do that now anyway," Cassandra pointed out. "He has been there for me at every turn, whenever I needed him, even when I didn't know I needed him or didn't want to need him. I know he always will be. And I will be there for him, whenever he needs me, whether he's willing to admit he needs anyone or not."

"Okay," nodded the old woman. "What about the rest of his family?"

"There's quite a lot of them," smiled Cassandra. "I've only met them once, though, at his sister's birthday party. I met so many people I could hardly keep track of who was who."

"Were any of them married?" Flora pressed.

"Oh, yes," she replied, red curls bobbing, "but you can't really tell anything about a marriage from a party, can you? Everyone's on their best behaviour, adults and children alike."

"Oh, I don't know about that," laughed the McLeod matriarch. "There's many a hoolie where I've seen both the good and the bad of a marriage show through. Think back. Who was relaxed? Who was smiling? Who was forcing it? Whose children didn't dare set a foot out o' line? Whose children dragged their parents into the games, and were they happy to be dragged? Whose laughter was real, and whose was fake? Who treated their partner as an extension of themselves? Who ignored them as far as possible, or worse: treated them as their own personal servant? I've seen all sorts of couples in my time, and all sorts of marriages, and no two ever ran the selfsame course. In this much, though, they were all alike: they had their triumphs and their disasters, their fights and their celebrations. Some have more of one than the other, and all have them in different quantities, but all have them, just the same. Marriage is difficult. It is hard. There will be times when you think your heart is breaking. But if you truly love him, as you say you do, marriage is what will make that love complete. It binds you both together in a way that no simple piece of paper can. It is so much more than just that. It changes how you see each other. It changes how you see yourself. No matter how much you think it won't, if it's right, it will. And if it _is_ right, no matter what crosses it must bear, bear them it will."

"And there never were two people more right for each other than you and Oklahoma's finest there," added Charlene from the doorway. She pulled her cardigan closer round her and walked over to the table. "So," she continued, pulling on a pair of white gloves, "where exactly in this pile of parchment have we got to?"

XXXX

Ezekiel Jones, world class thief, sat obediently in the chair he had been ordered into, watching his mentor at work. Not that 'work' was really an applicable term in this instance. Not unless that 'work' included drumming one's fingers on one's desk and glancing up at the mezzanine, in the direction of the reading room, every ten seconds. To be fair, thought Ezekiel, if something caught his eye in the book he was allegedly reading, he did sometimes manage to go a whole minute without looking up.

"You should probably go talk to him," suggested the thief. "Offer some fatherly, or maybe grandfatherly, advice."

Jenkins' eyes swung in his direction and narrowed. "And leave you alone down here? I think not."

"You are the patriarch of our little clan while Flynn's away," pointed out Ezekiel. "It's practically your duty to offer support and pastoral care when one of us is in emotional turmoil."

"What do you think I've been doing with you for the past six months or so?" Jenkins waggled a finger at the young Romeo. "I know you're sneaking off to the castle every chance you get to visit that dainty little blonde thing. No good will come of it. And if my watching you like a hawk at all hours of the day prevents two hearts being broken, that's fine by me."

"Seonaidh is not some 'dainty little blonde thing', she is a beautiful, vibrant, intelligent, fascinating young woman whom I happen to think very highly of," Ezekiel retorted, his voice rising and his brow darkening. "And anyway: If you're so sure _two_ hearts are in danger of being broken, you must think we both feel the same about each other. If that's the case, I see even less reason to stop us, sorry, _try_ to stop us seeing each other. I get that her granny has something to say about it, and you two are old friends and all, but that doesn't give you the right to decide who I get to fall in love with. Or her. Both of you have spent your lives locked away on opposite sides of the globe doing jobs that kept you away from other people most of the time. How does either one of you know Seonaidh and I couldn't make it work? It's worked this far, and so far we've had to deal with a lot more than just distance and duty."

"That is precisely why we are trying to stop this before it gets to the part where one or both of you ends up really in love," replied Jenkins, his back straightening. "Flora and I have both lived with the demands of our respective callings far longer than either you or Seonaidh. We know how little time or space is left in either of those callings for things like love. To try and bring the two together is untenable. It will lead to a lifetime of misery and heartache, if you are lucky. If either of you live as long as Flora or myself, or even that damned da Vinci, it won't be one lifetime of pain you have to deal with, it'll be several! You have to stop this now before either one of you gets in too deep."

Ezekiel kicked back his chair and grabbed a few more books from the pile. "Too late," he snapped, pushing past the Caretaker and heading towards the Library's main floor.

Jenkins sighed. He had known it was coming. It had been blindingly obvious for months. Try as he might, the wedge he had been attempting to insert between the two young lovers simply would not hold, and he knew Flora had not been any more successful at her end. He ran a hand over his eyes. Librarians were not supposed to fall in love. The work was too important, and too dangerous. There was nothing he could do about Flynn Carsen and Colonel Baird. For a start, they both outranked him. Mr Stone and Miss Cillian were carved in diamond from the very beginning. Even magic couldn't separate them. Besides: both couples worked side by side, doing the same job, together. A Librarian and a McLeod, though: that was a different matter. A dangerous matter. No good could come of it. Few enough Librarians had married, even fewer had become parents. Of those who had, however, their children had usually shown a distinct aptitude for magic and for Library work. Children of the McLeod line, though, had another magical repository to protect. The girl was a direct descendant of the Cailleach. If they married... If they had a daughter... He shook his head. Sufficient unto the day, he thought. Right now there was another emotional meltdown for him to deal with, and one for which he felt heartily unprepared. If the Colonel was here... But she wasn't, Charlene was busy, and da Vinci would be worse than useless if Jenkins suspicions were correct. He straightened his bow tie, poured a fresh cup of tea and, cup and saucer in hand, ascended the stairs.


	12. Episode 3: Chapter 3

**Many thanks for your patience. I've finally got round to fixing the poetry and spelling issues in chapter 1 of this episode.  
**

* * *

 **Episode 3: Annoying and Cryptic, Chapter 3**

Jacob Stone was seated at a desk in the reading room, complete with attached desk lamp, table lectern and adjustable chair. Everyone had their own study area in the reading room, and this was his. Behind him the sofa and two overstuffed armchairs sat quiet and uninhabited. He heard the door open and close, but kept his eyes on his book. He wasn't really reading it, of course. If anything, he was scanning it, looking for the name of the mythological personage they had all been searching for.

The teacup and saucer clinked down onto the coffee table amidst the comfortable chairs. "Staring at a page isn't going to change her mind, you know," murmured Jenkins. He watched the younger man's head rise slightly. "Come on. I may not be the Colonel, or one of your usual drinking buddies back in Oklahoma, but you need to talk this through with someone and I'm all that is available."

"No offence, Jenkins," growled Stone, " but I think I'll pass. I'm good. I'll survive."

"And your relationship with Miss Cillian?" Jenkins pressed. "Will that?"

Stone still didn't look round. "I get that you're concerned, Jenkins, but it ain't any of your business, so if you don't mind..."

"Isn't it?" Jenkins cut in, verbally steepling his fingers. "Well, on a personal level, perhaps not. But whatever has just happened between you, and I am reasonably certain I know precisely what that was, it is not just affecting you on a personal level. It is affecting you on a professional one also. That, in the absence of Mr and Mrs Carsen, makes it my business."

"I can do my job," growled Stone, and this time the growl was lower.

"Not from where I'm sitting," persisted the old man, ignoring the warnings. "From my viewpoint you are barely scratching the surface. Your conversation is constantly replaying itself, your questions are lining up in your brain, your hands can barely hold a book steady, and your knee hasn't stopped moving in the entire space of time that I have been here. You need to talk, so talk. Come sit with me, or just stay there staring at the wall: I don't care. Just talk."

"I wouldn't know where to start," Stone sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"You proposed, am I right?" Jenkins asked, sitting back in the armchair. "She said no, I take it. Start there. Did she say why?"

"I... She said she didn't want to get married. To anyone, not just to me," he replied, resting his head in his hands, his elbows still on the reading desk. "She said she didn't see the point."

"The point in what? Marriage?" Jenkins queried.

"The point in a piece of paper saying we're a couple," Stone elucidated. "She said we already are a couple. She asked me to move in with her instead."

"And that is not what you want," continued the old man, with a wave of his hand. "Nor is it, I assume, an acceptable compromise?"

"I don't want to compromise!" Stone snapped back, his voice rising. "I don't want to be her 'partner', I want to be her husband. I want to introduce her to everyone as my wife. I want the entire world to know that she is the one person in this world who means more to me than everyone else. I want her to know I will always feel this way about her. I want everyone else to know it. I want our kids to know it!"

"Have you told her that?"

Stone sighed and hung his head backwards over the chair, staring up at the plaster work on the ceiling. "No," he admitted. "Not in so many words. I told her I love her, that I want to spend the rest of my life with her. Build a home, family, all that stuff. That was before she said 'no' though."

"What did you say after she turned you down?" Jenkins asked, picking up the teacup and sipping thoughtfully.

"I said," he began, then stopped, closing his eyes against the memory. "I said I didn't understand. Then, when she tried to explain, I just... I just left. I think I said something. Can't remember what. Something along the needing time lines. It's a bit of a blur."

"Because you were expecting her to say 'yes'?" Jenkins replaced the cup. "Had you actually thought about what she might say before you asked, or did you just assume she felt the same way about the process as you?"

"You knew she'd say no," Stone look up and round, the accusation clear in his face.

"I had an inkling," Jenkins admitted.

"Why?"

"She's a scientist, Mr Stone," began the old man calmly. "A logician. Moreover, she is one who has spent most of her adult life believing she may die at any moment. She has not had space in her life for 'happily ever after' and dreams of the future. Not since she was a child, anyway, and it seems to me that the only dreams the juvenile Miss Cillian was allowed to have involved intellectual, rather than romantic, triumphs. The world is still new to her in many ways. Magic, yes, but that's new to all of you. So many things you take for granted, like relationships, and the prospect of having children, and faith: all are as new to her as magic is to you all. I don't know what her parents taught her about the matter, but I cannot imagine it would be much given the young age at which her tumour was discovered. After that, with one's very own sword of Damocles hanging over one's head, it is difficult to envisage any sort of future, let alone one that your neighbours and co-workers all seem to achieve quite easily. Better perhaps to decide against such a future. Rule it out by your own choice and it cannot be the tumour making the decision for you. Give yourself reasons that have nothing to do with the tumour. Reasons based purely in cold, clear logic. Such reasons, once accepted and ingrained, are difficult to dissuade. We are all broken, Mr Stone. We are all damaged in our own way. We build up our defences to help us cope with that damage. You may not be the only person in your relationship that has to spend some time recognising those defences for what they are before you can move forward."

"So you think she'll change her mind?" Jacob looked back round to the book again.

"Given time, perhaps," shrugged Jenkins. "You have that now, remember. You can afford to take things slowly."

"Yeah, with the end of the world breathing down our necks!" Jacob sighed. "What if we lose? How much time will we have then? We've been looking for one damn story for two days already. Not even the story: the pictures from it! How are we supposed to stop an organisation that has been planning this thing for years, gathering dozens of artefacts for years, if we can't even find an accurate picture of just one of them?"

"We'll find it," Jenkins nodded, getting up from his armchair. "Then we'll find the artefact itself, all of it, then we'll find the next one, and the next one, and so on until we have secured everything we need to make our stand, and take down theirs. We have done it before and we'll do it again. You have time."

XXXX

"You've been married, haven't you Charlene?" Cassandra asked, setting aside yet another pile of books. "What was it like?"

"What marriage?" Charlene glanced over at the younger woman and looked back to the scroll she was carefully unrolling and re-rolling, section by section. "Oh, I hardly think I'm the best example in the room."

"Why?" Cassandra pressed.

"Why?" Charlene paused in her work and looked up. "Honey, I've had two marriages in my lifetime. One of them ended in tragedy, the other in divorce. Neither of them lasted more than a decade."

"Do you think you'll ever get married again?"

"At my age? Who're you kidding? Even my cats have given up and started bringing home strays for me! Besides: I'm Catholic. I don't have the option. My last husband might have the luxury of divorcing me and running off with his latest muse - he was an artist, by the way - but I'm still technically stuck as his wife until death do us part. I'm no angel, but there are some rules I won't break."

"But that makes no sense," frowned the redhead. "He left you. He broke the rule, not you. Why should you have to suffer?"

"Because I made a promise," shrugged Charlene. "A promise before God that I would be his wife until I, or he, died. He made that promise too. Maybe he didn't take it as seriously as I did, but that doesn't change the fact that he made it. It doesn't change the fact that, by the laws of my own faith, my beliefs, I am still bound by that promise. Now yes, I grant you, the laws of the land don't bind me to it. Legally speaking, I'm a free woman. But I choose to follow my faith, and a choice like that doesn't mean just for the easy bits, it means for everything, just like marriage itself. So if I choose to remain Catholic, albeit possibly the worst Catholic in the western hemisphere, then I choose to remain a wife. An abandoned wife, but a wife all the same. But hey, look on the bright side: the jerk has a penchant for aggressive women, gambling, drinking and fast cars. He can't have that long left by now. You never know: I might already be a widow again!"

"You don't know?"

Charlene sobered. "Part of me doesn't really want to, kiddo. Really doesn't want to."

Cassandra looked back down to her work. She knew she was prying. She knew the memories she was prying into were painful. She had been about to ask why Charlene had married the man in the first place, and if she knew then what he was like, but the answer to that was written all over the older woman's face. Even now, a part of her still cared for him. If she still cared for the man who had left her in such callous circumstances, what must she feel for the man who hadn't been given the choice?

"Go ahead, I know you're dying to ask," sighed the receptionist.

Cassandra looked over and studied her face. It was looking down at the scroll again and difficult to read. "What was your first husband like?"

"His name was Robert," she began, keeping her gaze fixedly downward. "He was a doctor with Médecins Sans Frontières. We met out in Cambodia, during the refugee crisis of seventy five. He tracked me down back home, some six months later, which was not an easy thing to do, I might add. We started seeing each other, as far as was possible with our respective jobs at the time, on a more regular basis. He proposed on our one year anniversary, before heading back out to Lebanon for three months. By the time he got back I had most of the details already sorted out. We met with the priest, jumped through the usual hoops, sent out the invites and got married in the fall of seventy seven. We were together for four years, five months and seventeen days. Then, during an early morning bombing of the hospital he was working in, out in Afghanistan, he was hit on the head by flying rubble. He never regained consciousness. He was a good man. It took me along time to get over him."

"Were you there?" Cassandra asked, watching Charlene carefully. "When he died, I mean. Did you get to say goodbye?"

"No," she shook her head. "No, I was elsewhere. This was before I became entangled with the Library and Librarians. My job then took me all over the world at a moment's notice, rather like his, but we were rarely deployed to the same area."

"That must have made things difficult."

"It did," she nodded, her eyes focussing on the table itself and the corner of her lips curling up into a smile. "But we managed. We made the most of the time we had, when we had it. We knew the jobs we were doing were dangerous. We understood them, both of them, and the risks they entailed. I think that made those times when we were together even more precious. Neither one of us could have left those jobs, not then. I don't think he ever could have left his. We were needed. The jobs were more important than our personal lives. Neither one of us would have asked the other to give that up. It wasn't who we were. And so we made it work. If I could go be with him on site, then I did. If he could be with me, at home at least, if not at work, then he was. Even when we were apart, he was always with me. In my thoughts, my heart. I would play out conversations with him in my head when I was troubled, or bored, or just missing him. Imagine what advice he would give me, what stories he might tell me. And he had some funny stories. He stayed with me like that for a long time, even after he died."

"I'm sorry," murmured Cassandra, as Charlene's eyes fell to the scroll once more.

"Don't be," the older woman shook her head. "It's good to remember the people we've loved and lost. Even if it hurts to do so."


	13. Episode 3: Chapter 4

**Episode 3: Annoying and Cryptic, Chapter 4**

"Still sulking?"

Ezekiel Jones' voice cut through the peaceful silence of the reading room like the first rays of dawn sunlight on a summer Monday morning. Bright. Cheerful. Demanding to be noticed. And detested by everyone whose workday alarm is set two or three hours after sunrise.

"Get lost Jones," growled Stone from his corner. He turned a page of the book in front of him and refused to look up.

"Aw, come on, mate," trilled Jones, sauntering in and depositing himself full length along the sofa. "You've got the best room in the place all to yourself here. Surely there's room for little old me?"

"You, yes," Stone admitted. "Your comments, no. You wanna stay, you don't talk. It's a reading room. It's for reading."

"And we all have plenty of reading to do," grinned the thief. "How's Cassandra getting on with hers?"

"How about I return you to the office?" Stone returned sweetly. "Without going via the stairs?"

"Okay, I get you had an argument and all," scoffed Jones, "but that's a little harsh, even for you!"

"An argument," Stone echoed. "You think I'm sulking up here because we had an argument?"

"Ah-hah! So you do admit you were sulking!" Jones crowed triumphantly. "And why exactly would you be doing that if Math Girl hadn't utterly destroyed the logic of whatever you were arguing about with her super mathemagical powers?"

Stone laughed a single derisive laugh and looked up, shaking his head. "You know nothing! You do not have a single clue what you are talking about! We did not have an argument, 'mate', I asked her to marry me and she said no!"

Silence returned to the room. In the lea of the sofa, Ezekiel rolled his eyes and pulled a face. "And you thought she'd say yes?"

"Seriously?" Stone's voice rose an octave. "Am I the only person here that did not see this coming?"

"Well, yeah," Jones sighed. "She's a mathematician, mate. Logic. Facts. Blah-de-blah. She's not religious. Why would she want to get married?"

"It ain't just about religion!" Stone snapped. "Plenty of folks get married without even bringing God into it."

"Yeah, but it is with you, isn't it?" Jones pointed out. "You're some kind of Christian, right? You disappear on Sundays for an hour or so, when you can. You knew more or less what was going on at Eve and Flynn's wedding. The responses and when to stand and all that stuff. You've been raised a good Christian boy who believes in the institution of marriage, right?"

"It ain't an institution, it's a sacrament," Stone corrected him quietly. "In the eyes of the church, whichever church you belong to, it's a sacrament. And yes, I was raised to believe in it. What of it?"

"Well, because it's just been an accepted part of your life for, I don't know, most of it," shrugged Jones, "you just seem to take it for granted that everyone feels the same. Not all of them do. You were raised with the dial of your normality meter pointing directly at marriage. She wasn't. I mean, who knows what idea of normal Cassandra was raised with. She didn't even get to enjoy Christmas! Not even as a kid! Now that really is harsh!"

"So what? You're suggesting I find a halfway point between the two and accept that?" Stone got up and stalked over to the sofa. He rested his hands on the back of the sofa and looked down at the prone young man.

"Not exactly," replied Ezekiel, pulling a face. "I'm suggesting you introduce her to your version of normality. Show her it works. Show her it's a real, meaningful, special, thing. Tell her why it's important to you. Let her see the life you want to have with her."

"In other words, give her time," summarised Stone, looking down at the boy with a raised eyebrow.

"No," replied Ezekiel, choosing his words carefully. "In other words, stop sulking here and go make up with her, _then_ give her time."

"Huh," murmured Stone, pulling a face and shaking his head. He changed his grip on the sofa and pushed. With a thump, Ezekiel landed on the floor. "Get out."

"You said I could stay," pointed out Ezekiel, getting to his feet and rubbing his elbow.

"I believe I also said 'you don't talk'," Stone replied, pointing to the door.

"Aw, c'mon, mate: there were two people in that conversation!"

"Out!" Stone's shout echoed around the room and, hands raised in surrender, Ezekiel retreated.

XXXX

"How goes the search?" Flora asked, preceding her daughter into the chilly room. Charlene and Cassandra looked round, then made room on the table for the tea tray Mhairi carried.

"It goes nowhere," Charlene replied tersely, shuffling scrolls safely away from the possibility of hot, damaging liquid spills. "But it goes, anyway."

"Well, we can't ask more than that, I dare say," replied the Cailleach. "If it is here we will find it. If it is there..."

"If it's in the Library, I'm sure..." Charlene caught a look from Flora. "I'm sure the boys have found it by now."

"The gentlemen, surely."

"Oh, no, they're boys. Even the oldest sometimes," Charlene retorted. "As for da Vinci, who knows when he'll grow up!"

"Oh, and I thought you got on well with artists?" Flora replied sweetly.

"Well, I'm sure I know who _you_ got on well with," said Charlene in the same tone.

"Indeed, well," said Flora, changing focus to the tray on the table. "Successful or not, I thought you both deserved a wee bit warmth and sustenance. The tourists are gone now so we have the place to ourselves and Mhairi and myself can come down and help. Seonaidh will be down when her tutor leaves."

"Ah, yes, our little thief's intended," smiled Charlene.

"The lassie has been told what ill will come of it, and that her mother and I agree she should see no more of him," snapped the older woman, losing her veneer of calm for an instant. She recovered it gracefully and turned to Charlene. "I trust the same has been done at your end."

Charlene's smile didn't even try to reach her eyes. "Oh I'm sure you know better than I."

"You know I really could do with a cup of tea," interjected Cassandra, her brow wrinkling in consternation. "And those sandwiches look good. Is that tuna?"

"Smoked salmon, my dear," replied Mhairi, her eyes on Flora and Charlene. "With cucumber and lemon mayonnaise."

"Of course it is," smiled Charlene.

"When one has one's own salmon run and smokery, it's not exactly in short supply," smiled back Flora.

"Of course it's not."

"Oh-kay, you know, I really think we really should report back to the others at the Library and find out how things are going there," Cassandra blurted out in one breath.

"Do ya?" Charlene raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Cassandra gave her a look and the retired receptionist sighed and grabbed a sandwich off the tray.

"Guess I'll see ya," she muttered, waltzing out of the room with a hand raised in farewell.

Cassandra visibly relaxed when the door swung shut behind Charlene. When she opened her eyes she saw Mhairi offering her a cup of tea. She took it, and munched her way through several sandwiches before daring to break the silence that had fallen.

"What were your marriages like?" Cassandra finally asked the other women in the room. "If you don't mind me asking that is."

"Mine died," said Mhairi, refilling her cup. "Cancer. Five years ago."

"I'm sorry," began Cassandra.

"My first husband was a soldier," cut in Flora. "A general of sorts, as it was then. He died leading his men in battle against the English. But that was a long time ago. My second lasted longer. He was a farmer at heart. He loved his land. He was a good man. A fair man, and simple, straightforward. A good father too. He divided his time between his crofters and his family as evenly as he could. Tuberculosis took him. Consumption as we called it then. But by then both daughters were grown and had husbands of their own to take care of them. I moved back here and have remained here ever since."

"Didn't your third husband want you to move in with him?" Cassandra queried.

"He may have, but I had a home and he didn't," laughed Flora. "Besides, by then I was needed here. I had a daughter. I had become the mother. By the time my second husband died, my daughter had a daughter of her own. I had become the crone. Soon my eldest daughter joined me here, with her eldest in tow, and the three have never been broken since. Maid, mother and crone, one of each. All here, all the time. With one or two short exceptions.

"So you can leave?" Cassandra confirmed. "You don't vanish in a puff of smoke if you go beyond the castle grounds?"

"No, we can leave," replied Mhairi. "We are as free to leave the Castle as you are the Library. "We're simply more linked to the Castle. You can recruit from all the great minds of the world. We rely on our bloodline. Your magic is a result of working so long in another dimension. Ours is inherited."

"Is that why you don't want Ezekiel and Seonaidh to work out?" Cassandra pressed. "Because their children might inherit both?"

Mhairi looked at Flora, and the old woman sighed before answering. "Not exactly," she said. "I have no idea how far a Librarian might pass on their magic to their offspring. What I do know is that they will always be called away from here. Away from the one place their spouse must remain. Such a thing is not easy in a marriage. Especially if one or both of them receives the same extended years as others have before."


	14. Episode 3: Chapter 5

**If you get to a point where the dialect gets too broad, don't worry. I'll stick a translation in the afterword.**

* * *

 **Episode 3: Annoying and Cryptic, Chapter 5**

Cassandra took her cup of tea over to the settle and sat down. Something was nagging at her. She wasn't exactly comfortable with the tension between Flora and Charlene. She looked up to both women and each for different reasons. To see them openly at odds with each other had rattled her a little. When Mhairi disappeared with the empty plates, Flora sat down by Cassandra, her own cup in hand, and the redhead decided on one question at least that had been bugging her.

"Flora," she began, "How did you and Jenkins first meet?"

"First?" Flora laughed. "Oh, now that's going back a tad. Let me see. That was the year before Bruce was made Guardian of Scotland, so I would have been but a wee lass myself. About seven. Aye, it was autumn, and the geese were flying south overhead. I would have been just beginning my eighth year. Of course, there was less of the castle then. Nothing of the building we're in. Just the curtain wall and the old dun within. Any wishing to enter had to come by sea, where they were easily spotted aforehand. He was easier than most, standing there on the prow o' the boat, sunlight reflecting off armour a Norman would ha' been proud of. That was a novelty in Dunvegan. Nothing of that ilk had ever been seen before there. My father had seen it though, and weel he kent the bearer o't. My father, ye understand, was a strange man hi'sel'. He spake th'auld tongues and the new, oor own being somewhat in the middle. He it was that went doon tae meet oor newest visitor, and greet him in his own tongue. He it was that brocht him up to oor hearth and hame an' settled him in the finest room. A fearsome sicht he was to a wean. Hair as white as the spray on the ocean, sword as sharp as the grass in the machair. He smelt o' goose grease and leather, and the creak o' his armour heralded his passage the longer he stayed with us, for we had none o' the first to spare an' he brocht little hi'sel'. Auld Creaky we called him then, and the nickname stuck, at least long enough, in legends long forgot, to reach Woden's Broch centuries later and give it it's own version.

I niver did learn the full o't, but a wee one can aye hear more than it's elders wish, if it has the knowing o' a place. My eldest brother had been born just the winter before, the future chief, and a boy-child always trumped a lass in those days. The women o' the dun flocked by him an' left me to masel' wi' the ither weans. I had spent a glorious summer, exploring a' the nooks an' crannies o' a' the buildings within the curtain wa'. I found masel' a wee hidey hole by ma faither's chamber, and listened to all they talked of within.

Ah did but hear the bare bones of it then, ye ken, but time and the knowing of ma place in land, and ma power and the duty that went wi't filled in many o' th' blanks. Galeas, ma faither ca'ed 'im. An' so hiv I e'er since. They spake o' krakens, an' corryvreckin, and the blue men o' the minch, an' I understood e'en then that thae things meant danger on the water. Nae boats sailed frae the dun for the rest o' that year and part o' the next. No' wi'oot Galeas on board. Finally, as the new leaves were unfolding on the rowan, he returned one day to announce the waters were safe once more. I know now the blue men had o'erstepped their boundaries, an' he had sent them back south, but then stories abounded o' the monsters he had fought and the lands he had sailed to. The stories spread and gained legs in the telling o' them until there was barely a shred o' truth left. By the time I saw him next, his name had been forgotten by all but I, and his story was someone else's."

"But how could everyone forget him?" Cassandra asked, engrossed in the tale. "Forget his arrival, his adventures, his name, even!"

"A hundred years had passed, child," smiled Flora. "There were none left but I who had ever met him."

Cassandra's eyebrows rose. "I'm guessing he didn't recognise you then," she smiled.

"No, I had changed indeed, though he had not," the old woman replied.

Cassandra straightened, and steeled herself to ask what was really worrying her. "What about Charlene? You two don't seem to get on well at all. How did the two of you meet?"

"Ah," breathed Flora. "Well, now, I can't really say that we ever did, properly, before now. Magical mirrors are useful contrivances though, and we've known of each other for many years. I know much about her that she'd rather I didn't, and she thinks she can say the same of me. She certainly blames me for much. But neither of us knows the other truly, and perhaps we will be better acquainted by the end of this."

XXXX

Jenkins leant on the mezzanine bannister in thought. Jacob Stone still refused to leave the reading room, or allow any other intrusions therein. He had listened to two counts of advice, or permitted them to be given, anyway, and that was that. Cassandra Cillian, on the other hand, by Charlene's account of matters, was soaking up advice and information like a sponge. She had quizzed every married woman in Dunvegan. She had listened. She had considered. But she still had not come home. There was work to be done, though, and mostly at the castle, so maybe that was why. The back door clicked open and closed, and Jenkins looked down hopefully. What he saw, however, did not fulfil those hopes, but dash others. Inwardly he groaned. He could see the pattern of events ahead as clearly as if Kenneth Mackenzie himself had whispered them in his ear. Events that may yet have untold consequences. The consequences he was sure of, though, were painful enough.

"Ezekiel," he called down, and the young man froze. "Where have you just been?"

"Why?" Jones returned, without looking up. "I haven't broken any laws. I haven't slacked off from the job. I don't see what business it is of yours."

"You have no idea of the full weight of what you are getting yourself into," sighed Jenkins wearily. "Neither does the girl."

"And you do?" Jones retorted. "I need to check something in the Library. Excuse me."

Watching the younger man storm off, without once looking round to his mentor, Jenkins let his head fall into his hands. "You have no idea," he repeated quietly.

"We got it!" Charlene's shout broke the Caretaker out of his reverie. He looked down to see both her and Cassandra standing where Ezekiel had been some ten minutes or so before. The elder raised a dust covered tome in triumph.

"You found the original?" Jenkins asked, raising his head, previous worries set aside for the moment. "With illustrations?"

"We did indeed," cheered the retired receptionist. "And look: no warts!"

Jenkins threw her a look, at which she shrugged and headed for the central desk, depositing the book with a thump that made him wince. Behind him, Jacob Stone emerged from the reading room and glanced down at the source of the noise. Cassandra looked up and caught her lover's eye, but he looked away towards the desk and the book. Without returning the synaesthete's gaze Stone joined Jenkins in heading downstairs to study the fruits of their labour. When they met at the desk, he took care to place himself on the opposite side of the group from her.

The book was a collection of oriental legends several hundred years old. Jenkins took charge of the item immediately, pulling on a pair of white cotton gloves and turning every leaf with care. When he came to the tale of Kotan Utannai, he stopped.

"Cassandra, would you fetch Mr Jones please," he began, his eyes flicking through the hand written words on the page, "and da Vinci too? They should both be in the main Library somewhere. We will need the computer skills of the former, and the latter will do nothing but complain if he is left out."

The younger woman nodded and hurried off, casting an unreturned glance at Stone as she left. Within a few minutes she had returned, one man on either side of her.

Without looking up, Jenkins turned the book and passed it over to Ezekiel. "Can you find out if articles such as these have been sold in an auction?"

"In the last what? Six months?" Jones clarified, casting his eyes over the items illustrated and their descriptions.

"In the last however far back the records go," replied Jenkins. Any mention of them at all will give us somewhere at least to start looking."

Jones nodded. "It'll take longer..."

At the pause, Jenkins looked up. "What? What is it?"

"I've seen this before," admitted Jones. "Couple of years ago now, but..."

The others watched and waited as the thief flipped open his tablet and started searching in silence. The wait seemed interminable, until finally he spun the propped up rectangle round to face them. The collected costume had been sold at auction two and half years ago. It had been purchased for an exorbitant sum, but the buyer's other details remained protected by client confidentiality. Cassandra noted down the name and address of the auction house in her notebook. Stone took a photograph of the illustrations on his iPhone, and deleted the selfie Ezekiel had taken while he wasn't looking. Jenkins turned to reset the door.

"Oh, look, Philadelphia," Charlene commented, reading the address on the web page. "I had a colleague who was from there, once upon a time. City of brotherly love. Well, I guess we could all do with some of that."

"I know exactly what you mean," replied da Vinci, sidling past Cassandra to the older woman's side.

"Oh, I doubt that!" Charlene retorted with an acid smile.

XXXX

The city of Philadelphia climbed high above them, towering triumphantly to the skies. The streets were busy, and Jones and Cassandra fought to keep Stone in their sights as he hurried on ahead, pushing though the crowds. Eventually, with the help of a navigation app on Jones' phone, they caught up with him, leaning impatiently against the wall by a door. The sign on the door heralded their arrival at their destination.

"We're here," announced Stone's stentorian tones. "Go do your hacking thing and find out where this thing went."

"You know I do have other skills to bring to this team," Ezekiel pointed out.

"Yeah," nodded Stone, considering. "Computer researching, computer databases, bypassing computerised security systems..."

"Sometimes I think all I am to you people is a computer geek," complained the younger man, focussing on his phone.

"Only sometimes?" Stone retorted, earning a sharp glare from Jones. "Oh, don't worry: we know you're a thief too."

"Maybe once," muttered the thief. "But now I only use my powers for... Oh!"

"What?" Cassandra craned over Ezekiel's shoulder to see the screen. He passed the phone to her and she looked down. "Oh crap," she murmured, reading the name of the buyer with heartfelt anguish. "That's my Dad!"


	15. Episode 4: Chapter 1

**Episode 4: More Than You Know, Chapter 1**

"Explain to me why your father, a scientist, would have the complete armour of the mythical hero Poiyaumbe," enquired Ezekiel lightly as the three made their way back to the door, Cassandra on his right hand, Stone on his left. "I thought your parents didn't believe in magic."

"They don't," shrugged Cassandra, one arm threaded through the thief's. "They believe in history though. Other disciplines, they're like a hobby to them. My father has an interest in history. My mother in music. A relaxing evening in for them would be her playing the violin while my father read some book on ancient Greek amphorae or the Mughal Empire or, you know, the plague, if he was in a cheerful mood. Science was his day job. His spare time he liked to spend 'improving his mind with an easier topic'."

"History is not an 'easier topic'!" Stone growled from the other side of the Philadelphian pavement.

"His words, not mine," replied Cassandra placatingly. "Anyway, he's probably started reading books on the history of Japan, come across the armour somehow and decided it would make a good historical and financial investment, and an interesting talking point to boot. They used to invite a selection of colleagues for dinner once every month, and sit and discuss the newest findings in their respective fields. I would be encouraged to stay up and join in the conversation, and ask intelligent questions of course. Occasionally

I got to try out that year's STEM project on them. My father called it 'running the gauntlet' because I would have to be able to answer all their questions."

"What kind of questions?" Ezekiel asked, pulling a face. "A kid against a panel of fully trained experts is hardly a fair match."

"I think that was the point," giggled Cassandra. She looked away and the smile faded. "Of course that all changed after... Well, just after."

"How long has it been?" Jacob asked, his brusque tone softening even if his eyes remained focussed on the road ahead.

"Years," sighed Cassandra. "Over a decade. I don't even know if they've moved or retired or anything."

"And they've never tried to find you?" Ezekiel frowned.

"They probably think I'm already dead," she shrugged, looking down at the cracks in the pavement. "I should be by now really."

Ezekiel wasn't sure if his friend heard the sharp intake of breath from the far side of him, but he certainly did. It angered him. The guy obviously loved her. That hadn't changed. So why was he leaving it to Ezekiel Jones to look after the woman they both cared so much about. Caring about others was still a novelty to the thief. What could he do?

"Want me to steal it from them?" Jones grinned at Cassandra. "With your background knowledge of the mark, and a little bit of recon, I can have the whole thing out of there in one night."

"My father is not a 'mark', Ezekiel," scolded Cassandra with a wry smile. "But you're right, stealing it might be the easiest way. At least then I wouldn't have to talk to them."

"We're not stealing from your parents," sighed Stone. "What if something goes wrong and we bump into them: it's hardly the homecoming you want."

"I don't particularly want any 'homecoming'," she shook her head, looking fixedly ahead. "The Library is my home now. You are my family."

"You know, I did this kind of thing alone for years," cut in Jones. "You guys don't have to be there. Besides, if either of you two amateurs are there, you'll only get in my way. Then I really might get caught."

"No, let's at least try a legal tactic before we deploy the thief," argued Stone. "If we can persuade Mr Cillian to give us the armour..."

"That's what we call a con, mate," chipped in Ezekiel. "Still illegal."

"Only under false pretences," pointed out Stone.

"So what? You're gonna tell him it's magic and it needs to be hidden away in an extra-dimensional Library so the bad guys don't use it to take over the world and bring about the apocalypse? You're right: that's not illegal. It is, however, crazy, and will not work."

"Change magic to precious or valuable or culturally important, and leave out the extra-dimensions, and it ain't as crazy as you think," countered the cowboy. "People loan pieces like that to museums, universities and libraries every day. If I go in there, alone, with my art history hat on, I can tell him enough about his piece, and a whole lot of others he might try to quiz me on, to convince him I'm for real."

"No, you can't," Cassandra interjected, stopping in her tracks and turning to face the two men. "You won't. Not if you just show up out of the blue. He'll be suspicious from the start. At least, not if you show up alone."

"I thought you didn't want to see them?" Ezekiel looked from one to the other of his colleagues. "You know, we can go back to my plan in a heartbeat."

Cassandra smiled at him and squeezed the arm she was holding. "We might have to, if this doesn't work," she said. She took a deep breath and watched Jacob's face while she spoke. "I think I should introduce you to my parents, properly. If they let us in, and you spot the armour, you can start talking to my father about it, maybe persuade him to let us arrange for it to be transported to a prestigious display of ancient artefacts of great cultural significance."

"Won't they be just as suspicious of you turning up out of the blue?" Jones frowned. "Maybe even more so of Stone because of your sudden appearance?"

"Not if..." Cassandra hesitated and glanced at her feet. "Not if I introduce him as my fiancé."

Jacob's eyebrows rose and he studied her downcast face with such scrutiny that his burning lungs had to remind him to start breathing again. He detached her arm from Jones and dragged her a few steps away.

"Is it not enough to break my heart, now you have to rub salt in the wound too?" Jacob hissed, his grip tight on her arm.

"I didn't mean or want to do either!" Cassandra hissed back, wrenching her arm out of his grip. "This has nothing to do with us! It's just logic! They won't trust a stranger turning up out of the blue, and the only good reason I might have for showing up all of a sudden is something big happening in my life. It's a bit late to show up saying 'hey, guess what: I'm not dying now' nearly a year after I'm cured, and they'll want to know all the details of how that happened by the way. That's what they're like. And if you're with me, they'll want to know who you are, why you're there, what you do... The whole nine yards. We need a reason they'll accept, or they will get suspicious, even of their own daughter. They're intelligent people, Jacob. Very intelligent!"

"Intelligent enough to spot that we're actually in the middle of having an argument about getting engaged rather than actually getting engaged?" Jacob returned.

"Actually, we're in the middle of decidedly not having an argument about it!" Cassandra pointed out. "This is the first time we've even mentioned it since then. You know, I think this is actually the first time you've even looked at me since then! Not that it'll matter to my parent: they argue all the time. That's normal for them."

"Not for us!" Jacob retorted. "Not for most other couples I know."

"Flynn and Eve are the only other couple I know!" Cassandra pointed out. "They have their fair share of fights. So did we before we first got together."

"But not since," he replied, raising a hand to her cheek.

"And look where that's got us!" Cassie cried, brushing away his touch and hurrying down the street towards the current location of their own personal wormhole.

XXXX

"How are you?" Jenkins asked the shimmering rectangle on his desk.

"Still here," replied a weary Flora. "As old as the hills and feeling every pebble of it."

"Tourists?" Jenkins raised an eyebrow at the Cailleach's image.

"Teenagers," retorted the old woman. "Well one teenager, anyway. Not even that, really: she'll be twenty one in a month. I was a wife and mother when I was her age. Not that I held either title for long after though."

"You had no choice in the matter, she does," he pointed out. "Especially in this modern era."

"I knew my duty," Flora pointed out. "I had no choice in my first or second match, but I was a good wife to both, and times were hard then, especially on the young. I raised more than I lost, secured the lineage, and in that I was fortunate. This girl... Ah, she is a stubborn one. I worry if we refuse them this choice, she will make another of her own and leave. And she will not accept another's choice for her, like her mother did. She is a bright star. A throwback to my own days and before. Strong-willed. Intelligent. Powerful. We cannot lose her."

Jenkins peered closer at the screen and frowned. "There's more. I could always tell when you were keeping things from me."

Flora smiled, but her smile did not reach her eyes. "She is powerful, as I said. I can feel it. He can feel it: why do you think he's so drawn to her. The faerie blood runs strong in her. She has their beauty, she has their magic, and I fear she has their impetuous nature also."

"Is that all?" Jenkins' eyes narrowed.

Flora shook her head. "No, it is not. I feel... I think... that she has their years also."

Silence spread out from the mirror and filled the room like a fog. Jenkins' eyes opened wide and he stretched out a hand towards the glass, pausing an inch from the surface. "You know, now that Leo is here, and Charlene's come out of retirement," he began, pausing to swallow the tremor that had appeared in his voice, "I was thinking it was time that I retired. I can research magic anywhere. These new Librarians don't need a dinosaur like me under their feet. They have Flynn to guide them. He'll be back tomorrow, with his new bride, and can take over. Maybe I'll even just take a holiday for a week or two. If I decide not to come back, they can always send my things through the portal. I hear Skye is still beautiful this time of year."

"I am not dying yet, Galeas," smiled Flora. "Nor can you leave your post now. Your own duty calls you. As does mine. Ragnarok is coming. You must teach your apprentices all they need to know to protect their charge, as I must mine. Perhaps when she knows more, she will understand just how untenable this relationship is. At least for now."

Jenkins' hand reached out further and hovered over her cheek. "If you call me, Flora, I will come."

"I know," she smiled, stretching out her own fingers to hover over his. "But not yet. The task ahead is still too important."


	16. Episode 4: Chapter 2

**Episode 4: More Than You Know, Chapter 2**

The trio reached the site of the back door in sullen silence, Cassandra trailing the two men in her wake. She wrenched open the door and stepped forward, then stopped, Ezekiel colliding with her back. He peered over her shoulder and came face to face with a startled and confused looking young chef, her arms full of celery. Her blonde hair bobbed under her hat as she looked from side to side.

"S-sorry," Cassandra stammered, backing away. "Must have taken a wrong turn. My bad."

The two reversed out through the door and slammed it shut behind them, leaning back against it with Cassandra's eyes wide and Ezekiel's narrowed. Stone folded his arms and looked from one to the other of them, then the door. He took a step forward and pulled out his phone. The number dialling, he pressed the speaker button and held it up.

"Hey, Jenkins?" Stone began, keeping his tone level. "Why isn't the door working?"

"One moment," Jenkins replied, as taciturn as ever.

There was silence on the other end and the line went dead. Cassandra's eyes widened further while Ezekiel rolled his. Seconds later, both pairs of eyes were staring up at the library ceiling. A familiar face frowned down at them.

"Why were you leaning against the door?" Flynn asked, mildly puzzled. He reached down to help Cassandra up, while his wife dragged her favourite thief to his feet on the other side.

Stone sauntered through the chaos of his tumbled comrades with a smirk. The grin faltered when a sudden obstruction sent him flying. He landed on the floor with a loud thump and a cry of pain. "Dammit, Jones!"

"What?" Ezekiel shot back, all innocence. "I'm just trying to keep my balance here while Mom checks for damages."

"Still not your mother!" Eve retorted. "And I'm checking for stolen goods, actually."

"Which you will not find," grinned Ezekiel. "I'm a real boy now, Geppetto: I passed my morality test and everything!"

"Sure you did," muttered an unconvinced Colonel, ceasing her search of his pockets and folding her arms.

"What in the name of Pete is all this ruckus?" Charlene yelled, marching through the office door. "You can hear Chuckles all the way to the large collections annex!"

"Charlene?" Flynn's jaw dropped. His brow wrinkled and his face paled. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd retired."

"Ah," Charlene stopped in her tracks and took in the scene, complete with newly arrived newly weds. "Well, here's a funny story..."

"It can wait," Jenkins cut in. He looked at Cassandra. "Where's the armour? What happened?"

"Minor setback," she replied, holding up forefinger and thumb in indication of how minor. "We have a plan. Two plans, actually. We'll be fine."

"Plans for what?" Eve asked suspiciously. "What armour is this?"

"The armour of Poiyaunpe, the hero of Kotan Utannai," replied Jenkins. "We came across a mention of it, and its apparently apotheotic properties, and have been tracking it down. The ladies found an accurate picture of the item and we found a mention of it at an auction house in Philadelphia."

"Of course, when he says 'we'," cut in Ezekiel, "the first time he means da Vinci and the second he means me. But it's a team effort, and we're not in his good books, so hey."

"What the..." Eve began, looking down at the youngest in the room.

"So what happened in Philadelphia?" Flynn demanded, unintentionally interrupting his wife. "Had it been sold already?"

"Yeah, and you'll never guess who too," replied Stone, dusting down his sleeve.

"To whom," corrected Flynn automatically. "And for that matter: to whom?"

Stone flourished a hand in Cassandra's direction. The redhead looked at Flynn sheepishly. "My father."

"For a rather exorbitant sum," added Ezekiel.

"I thought your parents were scientists," frowned Eve.

"They are," nodded Flynn, looking at Cassandra. "So why would your father buy a set of ancient Ainu armour at auction?"

"History's his 'hobby'," spat Stone, leaning back against the central desk with folded arms.

"Okay," said Eve slowly, her narrowed eyes flicking between Stone and Cassandra. "So Cassandra's father has the artefact. What is your plan to get it from him? Jones: do not speak."

Ezekiel shut the mouth he had just opened and tried to stop it curling up at the edges.

"They'll be suspicious if someone they don't know turns up," explained Cassandra, wringing her hands. "They'll be suspicious if I turn up too without a good reason."

"She wants to introduce me to them as her fiancé," Stone interrupted, his eyes on the inlaid wood pattern in the floor. "Then I convince him to 'lend' the armour to our 'collection' for a while."

"You got engaged!" Flynn's eyebrows rose and took the rest of his face with them. "That's wonderful! Congr...!"

Eve clamped her hand firmly over her husband's mouth, watching Cassandra and Stone with the intensity of an FBI profiler. "You didn't get engaged," she said, watching their reactions. Her face fell. "Oh no, don't tell me you broke up? You two?"

"It's complicated," Stone shrugged, looking away.

"Is it?" Cassandra asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Flynn tactfully removed his wife's hand, pausing to brush his lips over her knuckles. "Why don't Eve and I go instead. We can claim UNESCO sent us and the piece is being sent back to Hokkaido as an item of special cultural significance. Eve will be their, uh, their UN representative and I will be their historical expert, there to verify the authenticity of the items."

"He bought it over a year ago," Cassandra shrugged, wincing. "He'll want to know why it took you so long to track it down, where it's going in Japan, how much you're willing to pay for it..."

"We'll go," said Stone quietly. "It's the only option likely to work. If it doesn't, at least we'll still have plan B as backup."

"Which is?" Flynn enquired.

"Jones steals it," Eve sighed. "That's it, isn't it."

"I only use my powers for good now," Ezekiel piped up behind her.

Flynn glanced from Cassandra to Stone and back again. "Okay, well, why don't we give you two some space to figure out the details and Charlene, Ezekiel and Jenkins can fill 'my wife and I' in on everything else that has been happening while we were away."

"Good idea, darling," smiled Eve brightly, grabbing Ezekiel's ear. "I'll meet you in the main Library. I just want a word with Mr Jones here first."

Flynn bowed an acknowledgement to his wife and watched her drag the unfortunate Ezekiel out of the office. He waved a hand toward the office door and looked at the two ex-retirees. "Shall we go?"

Jenkins and Charlene preceded Flynn out of the room in uneasy silence, and Cassandra turned at last to Jacob. "It's complicated?"

"Well, it is, ain't it?" Stone replied, transferring his gaze to the ornate ceiling. "You don't want to get married. I don't want to be just your boyfriend."

"You're not 'just' anything! Don't you know that by now? Jacob look at me!" Cassandra cried, closing the distance between them and turning his face down to meet her gaze. "I love you! I will spend my life loving you! And I do not understand why that isn't enough! I love you. My entire world revolves around you. You are everything to me. And if marriage is what it takes to prove that to you, then fine, let's get married."

Stone took her hands in his and removed them from his face. "No," he said softly. "It doesn't mean anything to you. Not beyond that anyway. And if it doesn't mean anything to you, then it doesn't mean anything at all."

"It's a promise, Jacob," she replied, her voice shaking. "It's a vow. A whole lot of vows. Vows I'd make right here, right now, a hundred times over."

"And they'd mean the same to you whether you made them right here, right now, or whether you made them in a church in front of God and all our friends and family."

"Yes," she nodded.

He smiled sadly. "Not to me," he whispered, shaking his head. "They'd mean a lot, and I'd never break 'em, but they'd mean a thousand times more to me if I said them in a church, in front of God, all our friends, all our family. If at the end of it I get to introduce you to the world as my wife. The one woman I would bind myself to, body and soul, until the end of the world and beyond. And I know you love me. I do. I love you too. I'm just a little lost here, Cassie. You know, you're right: I had us all planned out. Maybe not the white picket fence and all - not in this job - but the home, the family, the future. And all of that started with the wedding. With our wedding. And I just assumed you felt the same about it. You were happy enough to help Eve plan hers. Happy enough to take part. Be her maid of honour."

"But that was her choice," shrugged Cassandra. "Hers and Flynn's. And planning a wedding, being maid of honour, all of that: it was fun, mostly. It was happy. And new. I'd never been part of a wedding party before. It was girl time with the only female friend I've truly had in a very long time. And maybe I don't understand all of it, but, you know, they're back now and they don't seem any different from before."

"You've spent all of five minutes with them," sighed Stone. "Look, Cassandra, I get it, I do: you're new to a lot of things and the idea of marriage, your own marriage, is one of them. Just... Just take a step back, okay. Watch them. Flynn and Eve. See how it will change them. And it will change them. For the better. But until you understand, really understand, what getting married means, we can't get engaged. I'll pretend, for your parents, and we can start getting back to where we were. _I_ can start getting back to where we were. Let's just... Let's just get this over and done with, right. It ain't exactly how I imagined I'd be meeting your folks."

"Okay," she nodded, watching his expression soften as he spoke. "But you need to know something first. It's not Mr Cillian, it's Doctor Cillian."

"Doctor and Mrs Cillian," he nodded, a begrudging smile tugging at his lip. "Got it."

Cassandra shook her head and smiled. "Actually, it's Doctor and Professor. Doctor of Philosophy in Biomechanical Engineering and Professor of Particle Physics."

"Particle physics huh?" Jacob raised an eyebrow.

"I could give you her full title and list of degrees," Cassie shrugged, "but..."

"Nope, particle physics is fine for now," he held up a hand. "And what do we tell them I am?"

"Well, what are you?" Cassie shrugged. "Did you ever actually get any of those degrees the Sorbonne offered you?"

"I have an honorary doctorate from Cambridge," he suggested.

Cassie raised an eyebrow. "In your name or your alter ego's?"

Jacob winced. "Pen name."

"I guess it wouldn't technically be a lie," Cassie mused. "It's still you, after all. Just, if he googles you..."

"Could the thief set up a google search that told him what he needed to know?"

Cassandra pondered this. "Maybe," she decided. "Or maybe set up a web page a google search would take him to. He's always boasting about his hacking skills. He could hack the university's site, and maybe set up a wikipedia page too."

"Then let's go rescue him from Bai... Eve," Stone corrected himself, "and get this done."


	17. Episode 4: Chapter 3

**Episode 4: More Than You Know, Chapter 3**

"What the heck is going on with you?" Eve demanded of the sullen young man before her. Ezekiel slumped back against the wall and folded his arms, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. Eve stood her ground, arms akimbo. "I know showing respect to others doesn't come naturally to you Jones, but that was downright rude! I thought Jenkins was the one person in this place, other than Cassandra, that you did actually look up to. And if you're not in his 'good books', as you put it, I want to know why, because I'm one hundred percent sure there is a good reason for that."

"Yeah, right!" Ezekiel snarled. "All I did was have the temerity to fall in love with someone he didn't approve of. Ironic, really, since he sure seems to approve of her granny well enough. Of course, maybe it's me doesn't approve of. I'm not good enough for his precious little princess. Not that it has the slightest thing to do with him, of course. I get that her mother may not like me much. I get that the old woman hates me. I don't care. Seonaidh loves me, and I love her, and we're going to keep seeing each other, regardless of what her family thinks. And if we're not going to listen to them, I don't know why the hell he thinks we'll listen to him. It has nothing to do with him!"

Eve looked away for a moment, trying to place a name. The connection clicked and she looked back. "Seonaidh: the little blonde thing you got lost in the gardens at Dunvegan with? Flora's great-to-the-power-of-who-knows-what granddaughter? That Seonaidh? You're still seeing her? How did I not know about this?"

Ezekiel shrugged, slightly mollified. "You had a wedding to plan. We had the Serpent Brotherhood to not quite take down..."

"But still... And you: you _love_ that girl?" Eve's face and tone bore witness to her incredulity and Ezekiel instantly bristled.

"Is it really so hard to believe? I do have feelings, you know," he countered. "I am capable of falling in love."

"I know, I just never really thought..." Somewhere at the back of Eve's brain a penny dropped. "Wait, what do you mean 'not quite take down'? We got the spear. We stopped the apocalypse."

"Yeah, about that," Ezekiel rubbed his neck and avoided the Colonel's eyes. "Turns out they may have had a backup plan. While you were, er, gone, the stone, um, changed."

"It changed," Eve watched the young man closely. "How did it change, Ezekiel?"

"Well, we were just, you know, showing Charlene the new relics and we came to the stone and the message was, well, different."

"Different how?" Eve folded her arms and glared.

"Um, just, you know," Ezekiel could feel a cold sweat break out on his forehead. "Different."

"What. Did. It. Say?" Eve enunciated very clearly.

"Er..."

"Ezekiel..."

"It said 'Ragnarok is coming'," he sagged.

"What!" Eve's voice went up a few decibels. "When did it change?"

"Well, we can't really be sure," he prevaricated. "We didn't actually see the change..."

"When did you _find_ the change, Ezekiel?"

"A, er, while ago," he equivocated.

"Today? Yesterday? Last week?" Eve pressed, closing in on the thief.

"Tiny bit longer than that..."

"Give me a date, Ezekiel," warned Eve.

"It was not my decision," he threw his hands up to placate the oncoming Colonel and began edging sideways.

"Ezekiel!" Eve's hand flattened against the wall, blocking his path. "A date. Now. When did you find the change?"

Ezekiel scrunched up his eyes and waited for the yelling. "When we got back from the wedding," he admitted. He braced himself, but the screams of indignation never came. Instead there was the sound of running feet. Halfway down the corridor, he heard the Colonel call her husband's name. He sagged back against the wall in relief and let his head rest there. Victory was fleeting, however, and he jumped when a larger hand slapped into the wall by his head.

"Glad to see Momma Baird back, Jones?" Stone chuckled.

"Shut up, Stoneface," the younger man retorted.

"Really? That the best you got?"

"Ezekiel," cut in Cassandra, moving Jacob away from his nemesis. "Can you hack a few websites to set up fake pages for Jacob, just in case my father decides to look into his background online? Maybe, Oxford university, or Cambridge, or one of the others, and something like Wikipedia?"

Ezekiel focussed on Cassandra. "You do know you don't need to hack wikipedia, right?"

XXXX

It would have been lovely to think 'it was a dark and stormy night' as they approached her parents' house, thought Cassandra, but it wasn't. It was a bright and beautiful morning instead. The birds were singing. Flowers and trees were bursting into bloom all around them. A warm breeze brought the promise of a perfectly lovely day ahead. If only it didn't have her parents in it.

They stepped up to the door and Cassandra rang the bell, fidgeting nervously with the hem of her jacket. Jacob took her hand and drew it through his arm, interlacing his fingers with hers. She glanced at him gratefully and he smiled back. The door opened and a tall, gaunt man peered down at them over half moon spectacles.

"Mr," an elbow connected with Jacob's ribs, "Doctor Cillian, I presume."

The gaunt man stared down at him then back to his daughter. "Cassandra?"

"Hello Dad," she replied shyly. "I've brought someone to meet you. This is Jacob Stone. He's my fiancé."

Turning his gaze back to Stone, Cassandra's father looked him up and down with the scrutiny of a horse dealer at the races. He pushed his spectacles up on his thin, aquiline nose. "You had better come in then. The study, I think, Cassandra. I'll fetch your mother. Tea alright? Or would your... fiancé prefer a beer."

Cassandra's fingers closed almost imperceptibly tighter around Jacob's.

"Tea would be perfect, sir" putting on his most charming Southern smile. "Earl Grey?"

"Of course," Doctor Cillian's brows rose. "Milk or lemon."

"Lemon, if you please, sir."

Doctor Cillian bowed slightly in assent and waved them into the hall. "Do go through. Cassandra knows the way."

Watching her father disappear around the corner of the long hall and up a grand staircase, Cassandra was brought back to herself by Jacob's lips on the back of her hand. She shook her head and turned back to him, nodding at a door at the far end of the hall. "The study's down here. Last door on the left."

They made their way though the hall with mingled haste and interest. Jacob would stop to look at something and Cassandra would drag him onward. Finally they reached the study and Cassandra closed the door firmly behind them. She looked at Jacob strangely.

"Early Grey," she said, when she had his full attention. "Really?"

"Jones made me watch The Da Vinci Code with him back when he was ill," he shrugged. "It kinda stuck."

"Really? Me too. What did you think?"

"Too easy!" Stone decided, allowing Cassandra to guide him to a settee and sit down by his side. "Any idiot could work out those clues! Took me less than a minute to get the final word for the codex!"

"Really?" Cassandra asked innocently. "How long did it take Ezekiel?"

"He'd seen it before," replied Jacob with a dismissive wave.

"How long?" Cassandra grinned.

"You don't actually expect me to believe the time he tells me, do you?"

"How long?" Cassie sing-songed.

"Five seconds," Jacob muttered.

"Aw, and you thought you were doing so well," she sympathised, trying not to laugh. "Don't worry. He's a thief: safe-breaking is part of the job description."

"Yeah? How long'd it take you?"

"Five seconds," she grinned. "We both saw it for the first time together, and we got it at the same time."

Jacob rolled his eyes. "He's a thief. What's your excuse?"

"I'm a mathematician, babe," she shrugged. "Code-breaking's in the job description there."

He rolled his eyes again and let them travel around the room. The walls were lined with framed degrees and honorary degrees, interspersed with the occasional ancient map or illuminated manuscript. Jacob's eyes narrowed. "Should they be there?"

"They're copies," explained Cassandra. "The originals are in the library, upstairs, under glass in specially made locked drawers. He has quite the collection. Or had, last time I got to see them, anyway."

XXXX

Jenkins stood leaning on the bannister of the mezzanine, looking down, master of all he surveyed, sort of. Once upon a time, perhaps, he mused, but not now. Now his world had become bigger, both figuratively and, with the aid of the still newly anchored Library, literally too. He had been dragged into the lives of the Librarian and his band of followers, just as they had been shoved into his, and it was getting harder to keep his own secrets separate. Especially now. They might never learn all of his adventures - there were far too many of them to fit in any but the longest lived Librarian's lifetime - but they would have to learn some. One. Sooner than he would like, and yet not soon enough. For so many years he had both longed for and dreaded this day.

Below him the back door opened and closed. He stepped back into the shadows, watching as a newly arrived Ezekiel cast a glance around him and up to the floor above. There was another conundrum. What to do about the boy. Especially in light of Flora's latest news. Now, more than ever, it was imperative that the girl should marry, and bear children. Daughters. Would it, could it, be so very dangerous if a Librarian was their father? It was not a question he had ever had to worry about before. It was rare enough for a Librarian to marry, at least after being called. Rarer still for them to have children. Those who had managed it, however, had produced offspring with a dangerously magical bent. Gifted in different ways, but all creatively so. A Librarian's child with faerie blood? The possibilities were endless. And terrifying.

XXXX

"Next," ordered Charlene, holding out a hand.

"I still cannot believe you wouldn't call us home for this!" Flynn replied, handing her an object wrapped in a velvet cloth. "The Tassilo Chalice, circa seven eighty. Seized by Charlemagne after he denounced the Duke as an oath-breaker. Don't touch it directly: you will be unable to say anything but the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth for at least a week."

"Which makes for some very uncomfortable dinner reservations," quipped Eve, holding the bag open for her husband. "You do realise that we wouldn't have minded. We would have come straight home."

"Which is precisely why I told them not to call you," stated Charlene, scribbling in a ledger and passing the still wrapped chalice to da Vinci. "Next!"

"Mata Hari's purse," said Flynn, passing a fringed and bejewelled oval on a chain over to Charlene. "It looks small, but she could fit all her clothes in there, apparently."

"That doesn't make it magic," Charlene pointed out.

"All her clothes," Eve reiterated. "Not just the ones she danced in."

"Ne..." Charlene's shout was cut off by the sight of a timeworn garden hoe rising from the satchel. "What in the..."

"The Sceptre of Clairvaux," grinned Flynn, passing the item over with gloved hands. "Gloves first. We're not too sure about this one yet. Better safe than shortbread."

"It's a hoe," Charlene pointed out.

"Yes it is," Flynn nodded proudly.

"It is a garden utensil," said Charlene, speaking very slowly and clearly.

"This is true," nodded Flynn again. "It could be very dangerous, so keep it safe."

"Dangerous how?" Charlene cried. "It's not even a rake!"

"I stopped asking that question a long time ago," sighed Eve.

"I thought _I_ had too!" Charlene exclaimed.


	18. Episode 4: Chapter 4

**Episode 4: More Than You Know, Chapter 4**

The entrance of Cassandra's mother was preceded by that of her father, holding the study door open for his wife as she carried the tea tray through. She set down the tray on the coffee table in the centre of the small group and proceeded to dole out the fragrant brew with functional formality. Only once every person had received their cup and saucer did she retire to an armchair and study her daughter's appearance.

"You look well," she stated, having concluded her scrutiny to her satisfaction, at least for the time being. "Has your medication changed?"

"It has," Cassandra nodded stiffly.

"Your father tells me you are considering marriage," she continued, ignoring Stone. "Is that wise, in your condition?"

"My health has nothing to do with the matter," Cassandra replied, her chin up and her back rigidly straight. "We are all dying, mother. Some of us faster than others, some slower. Some of us with plenty of warning, others when they least expect it. I have no intention of denying myself happiness because I might drop dead tomorrow."

"And you believe matrimony to this man would make you happy," the professor raised an eyebrow. "Really, I cannot understand why."

"Mother!"

"I intend no disrespect to your..." Professor Cillian paused and looked Stone over for the first time, "your beau, but to hang one's happiness on an outdated and essentially superstitious ritual is utterly ridiculous and I had thought I had raised a more sensible child than that."

"That outdated and superstitious ritual is a part of my faith, ma'am," intoned Jacob quietly, one hand wrapped tightly around Cassandra's. "It is to your daughter's credit that she'll take that step with me even though it ain't a faith of her own."

Cassandra's mother turned her gaze fully upon Stone, surveying him from head to foot as if she had spotted an error in the conclusion of a research paper and now had to search the data to find where that error had cropped up. "I do not recognise your name or features, Mr Stone. What branch of science did you say you studied?"

"I did not say, ma'am," he corrected her softly. "In fact, I'm not a scientist of any branch or kind."

"Then what are you?"

"I am a Librarian, like your daughter," Jacob shifted his grip on Cassandra's hand. "It's how we met."

"A librarian?" Professor Cillian's cold gaze swung back to her daughter. "You work in a library now?"

"I do," Cassandra nodded. "And I plan to continue to do so for the rest of my life. It suits me. The people there understand me. They accept me and they appreciate my talents."

"And what 'talents' do you have that help you file books and collect late fees? I expect your mathematical skills might help with the latter," commented the professor. "I cannot see how advanced scientific knowledge and understanding can help with the Dewey decimal system though."

"We have a large collection of relics and artefacts as well as many incredibly old books," smiled Cassandra, turning out one of the phrases they had practised with Ezekiel while setting up Stone's fake history. "I am of great value in protecting and restoring those items."

"I see, so this library is more of a museum, really, then," clarified Doctor Cillian from his chair. "I should like to visit it some time. Do you have many interesting Oriental exhibits? I am studying the history of China at present."

"We have a few, sir," admitted Stone, sharing a glance with Cassandra, "although I prefer the history of Japan, myself. I've been working on a full scale exhibition of Ancient Warrior Traditions of the Far East lately. I find the honour code of the Samurai fascinating."

"Indeed? I found them somewhat illogical at times, especially regarding the idea of seppuku. Then your function in the library is managerial?" Doctor Cillian enquired, turning his attention to Stone. "Or are you one of the janitorial staff responsible for moving the items in question?"

"My function is advisory, sir," replied Stone, his face unflinchingly impassive. "I am the Library's main expert in art history. Although my predominant areas of expertise are Western, I find it interesting to step outside my comfort zone every once in a while and study something new."

"I find I cannot argue with you on that point," nodded Doctor Cillian, whose thin mouth had betrayed his surprise and appreciation of Stone's own knowledge. "Where did you study?"

"I read History of Art at Oxford, England, as an undergraduate then went on to read for a Masters in _Archeologie et Histoire de L'art_ at the Sorbonne, in France," Stone returned promptly, reciting the qualifications he had 'acquired' only a few hours ago. "I wrote my Masters thesis there on the influence of European culture on Native American art. It was generally well received."

"You impress me, Mr Stone," mused Professor Cillian. "It seems you are not as unintelligent as you first appeared. And tell me: are you paid well for your advisory role at the library? It is my experience that such jobs hardly provide a salary on which one can support a family with ease."

"Well enough, ma'am," Jacob replied with an easy smile, although Cassandra could feel the muscles in his forearm tighten as her mother spoke. "The job is a stable and well paid one, and I have a little income of my own from shares in a family enterprise. I will be well able to support your daughter, and any children we may be blessed with."

"And you are aware of the situation my daughter is in regarding her health?" Professor Cillian continued, pinning him in place with her ice blue eyes as competently as a Victorian pinning a moth to a board.

"I assure you, ma'am, I am in full possession of all the facts."

"Hmm," the Professor's eyes looked him over again. Suddenly, she came to a decision. "You will stay for luncheon. It is easy enough for John to double his quantities. Then you can tell me what you expect from my daughter in this... marriage."

"As you wish, ma'am," nodded Stone, with a glance at Cassandra. "But all I expect from your daughter is that she loves me, and lets me love her in return."

"How quaint," smiled Professor Cillian, the brittle curve of her lips never quite reaching her eyes. "If you would excuse me, I must return to my studies. John: would you clear these dishes. Perhaps Mr Stone would appreciate the fruits of your own little projects?"

"As you wish," Doctor Cillian echoed, rising as his wife stood and left the room. He turned to Cassandra. "Why don't you take... Jacob up to our own little library. You know where the main pieces are. You will find some new ones with them. I will join you once I have finished here and in the kitchen."

XXXX

"I cannot believe you found a wyvern's nest on your honeymoon," da Vinci enthused, measuring the small, carved wooden box Flynn had sat on the table.

"Don't encourage him!" Eve reprimanded the artist. "We were supposed to be exploring an ancient Egyptian temple!"

"Oh, you did go back to Pakhet's temple then?" Jenkins asked offhandedly, barely looking up from the notes he was taking.

"No, well, yes," Eve began. "I mean, we tried, but it had been destroyed. Earthquake, not long after the last time we were there."

"Ah," breathed Jenkins. "How _entirely_ unexpected!"

Eve caught the amused note in the old man's voice and matched his smile. "Indeed!"

"To find a nest, though," proclaimed da Vinci, "and a wyvern's one at that!"

"I suppose we are certain it _is_ a wyvern," Jenkins raised an eyebrow. "Did you see it?"

"Not as such," Flynn admitted, "but the dust from its cave is green and sparkles gold when the light hits it. Only wyvern dust does that."

"And what do you intend to do with said 'dust'?" Jenkins enquired, arms folded. "It has no apotheotic properties that I know of and is in fact toxic to humans, even in the slightest quantity."

"Best place for it then," shrugged the new husband. "Stop other people getting their hands on it.

"And what is this?" Da Vinci asked, pointing to an amulet around Flynn's neck.

"Ah, yes, I'm glad you asked me about that," replied Flynn, not looking at Jenkins or Charlene. "You see we also happened to bump into an old friend..."

"Emily Davenport," cut in Eve. "She gave Flynn that medal the day after we met her, on a dig at Sakkara. Told him to keep it safe. It's a medal depicting one of the Egyptian goddesses."

"Not goddess, queen," Flynn corrected her. "Queen Hetepheres, mother of the Pharaoh Cheops, or Khufu, depending on whose translation of the hieroglyphs you go by, who built the great pyramids at Giza. It shows her cartouche on one side and her image on the other."

"I still don't get why they would make a medal of her," sighed Eve, rolling her eyes.

"Well, she was a bit of a celebrity in her day, you know," Flynn pointed out. "She was queen, but she was more than that. The Egyptians believed that the Pharaohs were the living embodiment of gods. She was the daughter of one pharaoh, wife of another and mother to a third, not to mention all those that descended from her. Daughter of a god, wife of a god, mother of a god... The people worshipped her! Plus she pulled off one of the great disappearing acts of ancient Egypt. When Reisner opened her sarcophagus, or rather, ordered it opened, it was empty."

"Tomb robbers," Eve pointed out.

"Would have smashed the lid," Flynn countered. "This one hadn't been disturbed."

"Okay, so she was buried in a different sarcophagus," his wife shrugged.

"Not any we've found, and believe me: we've looked!"

"So what? You think she faked her own death?" Eve flung up her hands.

Flynn nodded at Jenkins and da Vinci with a charming smile. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"They're Librarians," she pointed out. "And we're talking what? Two thousand years ago? Three thousand? Four? Was the Library even around then?"

"I don't know, maybe," Flynn shrugged. "All I know is that it was founded by a man known as 'the scholar' over two thousand years ago. And Hetepheres, by the way, lived about four and a half thousand years ago."

"Also, life in the Library is not the only source of increased years," added Jenkins. "It's the use of magic that does that, and there was much more magic around in those days. That's what the pyramids were designed to do, remember: rejuvenate and revive their incumbents for their journey to the afterlife. There are stories that one of the earliest true pyramids succeeded in doing precisely that, and from there comes the legend of the mummy."

"But mummies aren't just legends, we've fought them," Eve frowned.

"Oh, they were just artificially animated by the magic in the medallions," Flynn assured her. "We're talking fully conscious, fully alive here."

"So," Eve's brows wrinkled further, "why make a medallion of her?"


	19. Episode 4: Chapter 5

**Episode 4: More Than You Know, Chapter 5**

Jacob Stone followed Cassandra into her parent's library and closed the door. When he turned, he took in the items displayed there and his eyes lit up. Books stood shoulder to shoulder behind the glass doors of two opposing walls of floor to ceiling mahogany bookcases. Around the midpoint of each bookcase, four tiers of long, narrow drawers displayed their burnished handles invitingly. At the quarter-points of the walls, tall shelves displayed ancient urns, collections of coins, jade and jet carved figurines, gold-handled daggers, in their ostentatiously bejewelled sheaths, and all manner of other curia and archaeological finds. In the centre stood a large lectern and desk. At each corner of the room, a complete suit of armour, each from a different era and culture, stood to attention. A Roman legionnaire in one corner, a mediaeval British knight in another, a detailed replica of Alexander the Great's armour in another, and finally the one piece they had been looking for. The armour of Poiyaumbe, hero of Kotan Utannai.

"Are we sure that armour is the only thing we're interested in here?" Stone wondered aloud, inspecting the copy of the Macedonian armour. "This is really good. Do you think we should tell him it's not the original?"

"And how would you explain how you know that, exactly," enquired Cassandra, her arms folding while an amused smile played across her features. "We can't exactly tell him we know where the original actually is, and I wouldn't bet on him not being able to spot carmine or other non-timely pigments."

"Oh, I'm sure I'd come up with something," he grinned.

"I'm sorry my mother was such a..."

"Don't apologise for her," he interrupted her, frowning. "She is who she is and that ain't on you."

"I know, but..." Cassandra paused as Stone's gaze focussed on something behind her. He gave a short laugh and it was her turn to frown. "What?"

He walked past her and pointed to a book on a shelf. Though behind glass also, this one was of a much more modern ilk than those he had first noticed. Cassandra stepped over to the bookcase and read the title and author. They meant nothing to her. She looked round at Jacob and shrugged, shaking her head in incomprehension. He raised both eyebrows and smiled. She looked back at the book. She looked at his smug grin. She formed an hypothesis and tested it.

"This is you, isn't it," said Cassandra, indicating the book. "That's your fake name!"

Stone assented with a brief nod of his head.

"You know you can't tell them," she reminded him. "You'll blow our cover."

"Not necessarily," he shrugged. "And if it gets them to trust me more..."

"It's not worth the risk," cut in Cassandra decidedly. "Not unless we really have to. I mean: what proof have you that you wrote that? An acclaimed scholar writing under a fake name? It would make him more suspicious of you, not less!"

With a shrug and raised hands, Stone consented to let the matter rest, at least for now, and be shown the original manuscripts resting in the drawers, away from harsh light.

"Can you read it?" Cassie asked, peering down at the carefully stored sheet of papyrus over his shoulder.

"I'm good, I ain't that good!" Jacob laughed softly. "I can translate the hieroglyphs into ancient Egyptian, then the Egyptian into English, but it takes a minute."

A soft knock at the door brought their attention away from the drawer and it's contents.

"Lunch is ready, if you'd care to join us in the dining room," announced John Cillian from the doorway. "I trust you found some items of interest to you?"

"I'd say everything's of interest to me, sir," replied Stone with a charming smile. "The books, the manuscripts. Although I do find your collection of armour especially so. Is that genuine Macedonian?"

"According to its elevated provenance," Doctor Cillian nodded, with barely the slightest inclination of his head. "Alexander the Great's very own, if its history is to be believed."

"And the next corner," Stone pointed out the armour of the hero of Kotan Utunnai, "that's Japanese surely. Fifteenth century, if I'm not mistaken?"

"I believe so," nodded Doctor Cillian. "One of my more recent acquisitions. I have had it authenticated by two different experts. They both agree."

"I thought you were studying Chinese history at present?"

"I am, but a study of Japanese history preceded it," explained Cassandra's father. "I found the one rather led to a natural progression into the other. Shall we go?"

Stone offered his arm to Cassandra, which she took. "Of course," he said. "Lead the way. But I'd love a closer look at that armour sometime, if you don't mind. Some good photographs would be of immense value to the exhibition I'm working on."

Lunch turned out to be French onion soup, followed by a quinoa, pomegranate and spinach salad. If Stone thought the restraint of Cassandra's father would make conversations difficult, he had not even begun to consider the bloodless indifference of her mother. Conversation was impossible. Perhaps this was why the soft, dull thud of feet on the floor above caught his attention. He glanced at Cassandra across the table. She had heard it too, and had paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. She lowered the fork, still listening. "Mother, is there anyone else in the house?"

Professor Cillian looked up. "Do you not think they would have joined us here if there were?"

"I heard footsteps upstairs, above us," Cassandra informed her.

"Nonsense, child, your tumour is making you hear things again," her mother replied. "The security on this house is the best there is."

"I heard it too," pointed out Stone. "What room is directly above this one?"

"The library," sighed Doctor Cillian. "I had better check. If you hear an SOS, call the police."

"I'll go with you," said Stone, rising.

"Me too," added Cassandra.

"Don't be ridiculous, Cassandra," said her mother. "If there is any trouble, you will only start hallucinating and get in the way."

"Actually..." Cassandra began.

"Actually, why don't you stay here and make sure your mom's okay, Cassie," cut in Stone, holding his girlfriend's gaze. "Just in case there's anyone on this floor."

Cassandra read something in his features and nodded.

"Why are you really marrying him?" Professor Cillian asked once the men were out of earshot. "It cannot be 'love', surely."

Cassandra's head snapped round. "What does that mean?"

"Your father and I raised you in the full knowledge of what this ridiculous sentimental notion of 'love' truly is," replied her mother, looking at her in genuine puzzlement. "Nothing more than a Pavlovian hormonal response to archaic evolutionary tendencies. Females seek a mate that can support and protect them and their offspring, passing on the fittest alleles of the male population to those male offspring to enable them to do the same. Males seek a mate capable of producing many offspring, passing on those fittest alleles of the female population to any female offspring to do likewise. Natural selection. If you need reminding, I believe we have a first edition of Darwin's magnum opus in the library."

"I'm sure you do," Cassandra smiled back acidly. "Is there anything more important than knowledge, after all?"

"Do not take that tone with me, girl," said her mother sharply. "You will remember whose house you are in!"

"And you'll remember whose house I left as soon as I had the courage!" Cassandra shot back. "I'm not a girl anymore, _mother_ , I'm a full grown woman. I may not know much about emotions and love and what it really means to be married, and heaven knows I never saw much of any of those here, but I have learned what it means to be me. To be my own person. Not your property. Not your little experiment that went wrong. Not your daughter. And I know, now, what it feels like to have people who actually care about _me_. Who love _me_! Not my STEM fair trophies. Not my photographic memory. Not my IQ. Me! And there is nobody on this Earth who loves me more than Jacob Stone does, and I am damn sure there is nobody on this Earth who loves _him_ more than me!"

"With an attitude like that one wonders why you bothered coming back here at all," the professor replied. "But then you always did show dangerous signs of sentimentality."

"Yeah, like wanting to have friends!"

"Those imbecilic infants were not _friends_ they were walking sources of disease and distraction!"

"I was five!"

"You were already reading Hawking!"

"I didn't understand it!"

"They couldn't even read the title!"

"I didn't care!"

"I did!" Professor Cillian snapped. "You were perfect. The perfect combination of ability and enterprise. You inherited your father's insatiable curiosity and my determination and focus, and a combination of both our IQ's. You would have been unstoppable."

"Last time I checked the only thing that stopped me doing anything..."

A sudden crash thudded through the ceiling above, followed by an irregular drumming. Cassandra focussed inward and let her synaesthesia take over. There were two sources of drumming. One above her and to the left. The other above her and to the right. She focussed in on each individually. The one on the left drummed out three short gaps, three long ones, then three short. SOS. The other simultaneously sounded out one short, one long, two short. L for Librarians. Cassandra's eyes widened.

"Mother, call the police," she said, her face paling. "I have to go."

Cassandra dashed out of the dining room and into the hall, pulling out her phone as soon as the door swung shut behind her.

"Mr Jenkins! Emergency! Cavalry!" Cassandra gasped as she ascended the stairs two at a time.

"Miss Cillian, what is the matter?" Jenkins calm, yet mildly perturbed voice asked through the cell phone. "Do you need a door?"

"I don't know what I need yet," she cried, hurtling round the corner of the stairs and up the next flight. "I think we were attacked. Jacob and Dad went to see. I got an SOS and an L from the ceiling. Just get us a door and get everyone on standby. Won't hurt to see if there's any of that healing oil left too."

She reached the library door and left the phone line open. The door was closed. Tentatively, she touched the handle, unhooking the catch and letting the door swing softly inwards. Jacob was over by her father, helping him sit up and checking a cut on his head. The library was in its usual state of quiet somnolence with one major exception. The desk and lectern in the centre had been blown apart. Not simply moved to opposite sides of the room, but completely destroyed, as if by an explosion. The glass panes in the doors of the bookcases were fractured in patterns of lines that did nothing to dispel the notion in Cassandra's unique mind. Worst of all: the armour was gone.

All of it.

Jacob walked over to her, leaving her father sitting on the floor with his back to a bookcase and a handkerchief pressed to his head. "Are you seein' this?"

"What happened?" Cassie murmured, answering his question with a nod, her eyes wide.

"They were almost gone when we got here," replied her partner in crime. "We opened the door just as the last of them was heading through theirs."

"Their what?" Cassie blinked, looking at him directly.

"Their door," he replied. "Cassie, they had a door. They walked right through that display cabinet between the windows. Didn't break a thing. Till they turned and fired on us, that is! Blew that desk to smithereens, knocked your father and I for six and caught him a nasty cut on the back of his head. By the time we got up they were gone and the display cabinet door only led through to the display cabinet."

"Did you recognise any of them?" Cassie asked, searching his own head for damage.

"Oh yeah, I recognised them alright," Jacob replied. "One mediaeval knight, one Roman legionnaire, one Japanese warrior and Alexander the Great!"


	20. Episode 4: Chapter 6

**Episode 4: More Than You Know, Chapter 6**

With her father safely removed from the room to seek a first aid box, Cassandra pressed the speaker button on her phone.

"Miss Cillian _what_ is going on there?" Jenkins voice roared down the line.

"I'm here, Jenkins," she said, so quietly it did nothing to alleviate the panic beginning to show in the old man's voice, although it did decrease the volume.

"What help do you need?" Jenkins asked softly.

"How are you at rounding up errant armour?" Cassandra asked in a small voice.

"Fabulous, if it's being worn by an errant knight!"

"Not exactly," she replied. "Actually, if we're talking exactly here, well, it seems it wasn't being worn by anyone..."

"Not anyone solid, anyway," Stone chipped in, returning from helping Doctor Cillian to his room. "I could see right through them, every one of them."

"Oh," silence fell on the other end of the line for a long moment. "But where did they go?"

"They have a wormhole," she squeaked back, "like we do."

"Oh," Jenkins repeated. "Oh, that's not good."

"And my Dad saw them," she admitted.

"Definitely not good," Jenkins agreed.

"And one of them used magic," Stone added. "Explosive magic."

"That's not... No, wait... But..." Jenkins stopped again, and in the silence they could almost hear the wheels turning in his brain. When he spoke again, his voice was curious, and thoughtful. "Mr Stone, tell me exactly what you saw."

"We got to the door. It was closed," he began, retelling the tale more slowly and carefully than he had to Cassandra. "When we opened it, the first thing I saw was the empty corner where the Roman legionnaire should have been. Then as the door opened fully I saw the four suits of armour all standing in a line, facing away from me. There was not another soul in the room, I swear. For a moment I thought it was maybe just somebody playing a prank on the Cillians, then all four of them raised their right arms together and reached towards the display cabinet door. There was a light. Doctor Cillian said something and they looked round. I saw their faces then, but I also saw the back of their helmets through them! By that point the door was open and they started walking through one by one. We started to move forward, but while the others left one fired some kind of ball of magic at the desk in the middle of the room and it exploded, throwing Doctor Cillian to one side of the room and me to the other. He hammered an SOS on the floor and I signalled an L. By the time Cassie got here the door had closed and I was over by her dad, helping him. He took a hit to the head with something, but he'll be fine."

"Uh-huh," Jenkins' pensive tone returned. "Tell me, Mr Stone, the mediaeval British knight: was his visor up or down?"

Stone blinked and looked down in thought. "It was down. His was the only face I couldn't see."

"And I'm guessing he was the one who stayed back to cover the escape of the others?" Jenkins asked, the confidence returning to his voice.

"Yeah," Stone nodded, the penny dropping. "You think he was actually a person and the others were just under his control?"

"It's possible," the old man equivocated. "That kind of armour covers almost everything of the wearer, with only a tiny space for the eyes."

"Wait," said Cassandra, frowning at the phone. "You said 'it's possible'. Does that mean you think there are other possibilities?"

"Well, let's say I've learnt, in this job, it pays to hedge your bets," admitted Jenkins. "I know I know of at least two other possibilities, but I do not know how may more possibilities I do not know of."

"What are the two you do know?" Stone asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, obviously, the armour could be haunted," replied the Caretaker, with a verbal shrug so obvious they could almost see him do it. "Or, on the other hand, it might be possessed."

"The difference being?" Cassandra wondered aloud.

"Well, the difference being that the latter is a third party event," explained Jenkins. "A possession, magically controlled or otherwise, does not have to have any particular link to the person, or object in this case, being possessed. A haunting, by it's very nature, does."

In the background, a voice shouted "Aliens!"

"It's not aliens, Jones!" Stone, Cassandra and Jenkins chorused over speakerphone.

"What about the door?" Cassandra enquired, changing the topic. "Can we reopen it? Trace it maybe?"

"Hmm," Jenkins considered. "Unlikely, and definitely not with the tools that you have. Not if it was opened from the other end, anyway. If they opened it in the library themselves, you might be able to use whatever they used to repeat the process, however."

"What are we looking for?" Stone asked. "And don't say old or odd, 'cause there are a lot of old oddities in this room."

"Well, just like our mechanism here," Jenkins began, "theirs will have three parts: power, focus, effect. The effect, the wormhole itself, is gone for now at least. That leaves the other two. The focus will be something that links to the destination, and you know yourselves how random and seemingly irrelevant that could be, but the power source for this kind of thing has to be big. The globe I use once belonged to Verne and he rigged that thing with so many internal artefacts that he used to boast he could use it to visit every country in the world in less than an hour and a half. He did too, with ten minutes to spare! Brought back an item from every one and added them to the inventory. Of course, things were different then. I would like to see him try it after the empires all broke up!"

"Yeah, but you've got that thing hooked up to the door physically," replied Stone. "How do we figure out what they're using? And don't say old and odd!"

"I could say ancient and obscure," suggested Jenkins.

"Yeah, yeah, speak for yourself," grumbled Stone. "Call you back when we find it."

He hung up the phone, which had at some point in the conversation ended up in his hands, and looked round for Cassandra. She was walking very slowly along one side of the room, examining every inch of the bookshelves and drawers in detail.

"Darlin', you okay there?" Stone murmured watching her progress and wishing he could see what she did.

"I'm okay," she replied dreamily. "This is the easy part."

"Anything big?"

"Not really, not yet," Cassandra murmured, not pausing in her examination of the room. "But there's an awful lot of small."

XXXX

Ezekiel Jones ducked behind an arras and waited as the last tour group went by. When the echoing sounds of footsteps had faded away, he crept out the other end of the tapestry and followed the corridor to a carved oak door that bore a sign announcing it to be 'Private'. He slipped through the door and closed it quietly behind him. He had a choice of stairs up or stairs down. He chose down, heading for the archives. One flight passed without incident, then another, finally a third. He chose the second passage on the right and straight on to the door at the end.

He paused and listened at the door. There were voices inside. From the depths of his satchel he pulled a stethoscope. With one end on the door and the other in his ears, he listened to the conversation inside.

"Do not walk away from me, girl!" Flora's voice sounded sharp and angry.

"Why not?" Seonaidh's voice, much closer than her ancestor's, returned. "What would happen if I did walk away? From you? From here? It's not like the castle has never been without its three witches before. It must have been before I was born, surely. There must have been times, when one Cailleach died, that the maid took time to ascend to the place o' the mother."

"There has never been a time," replied Flora. "Never! Not since before the castle was built. From its building there was always three, and when the maiden became the mother, the mother retired and a new maiden was born."

"And when the Cailleach died?"

"You labour under a false impression, child," snapped the crone. "The Cailleach has never died. There was only ever one. Only I, and I alone. I am Flora Nic Tormod Mac Tormod Mac Leod Olafsson. Leod Olafsson, my great grandfather, was the Leod from whom we take our clan name. His son, Tormod, met and married the faerie princess, from whom we inherit our power. Together they had a son, Tormod after his father. That son was my father. I was named for my mother. I was born in the heart o' the winter that never was. The winter before the queen, Eleanor, died. I have lived on this Earth for seven and a quarter centuries and now my time is drawing near. How near, I cannot tell. I only know what my Grandmother told me: that I would know my end neared when another with my gifts came to replace me. At first I thought it was one of my own daughters or granddaughters that would take my place, but as I lived on, and watched them age and die, I realised my life was as cursed as it was blessed. For fifty years I waited to die. To follow my husband in death and pass this mantle on. One by one I watched the generations pass, slowly realising I would not pass with them. After a century of living, I even tried to die. For the better part of a decade, I found different ways to try and die, and every time, my powers prevented me. And I would have gone on trying, had another like myself not saved me, body and soul, and set me on my right path. Since then I have taught and trained every daughter of this house in the ways of our blood. I have watched the power in the blood wane and wane. Until now. Until you. You are the daughter destined to take my place here. You. Whether you choose it or not. And you will have a hard life ahead of you my girl. A hard, long, terrible, tearstained life where duty hangs about your neck like an anchor, keeping you in this place while the centuries turn and the walls crumble. It is neither my doing nor my choosing, and nothing I can do can take this geas from off your shoulders. The only thing I can do, to lighten that burden, is teach you everything over seven centuries of carrying that same burden has taught me. And the greatest lesson it has taught me is that there is nothing on this Earth - _nothing_ \- that tears you apart more than opening your heart to a love that must always be kept from you. You cannot die until the next comes to take your place. He can. You must marry and produce an heir, but choose a man who will stay by your side all his days. A good man. A good father. It will still hurt when he goes, but at least he will have a long life by your side before he does, as will your children and your children's children. You will weep tears to fill an ocean in your time, but to see them live the full length of their days in happiness and health eases the pain some. I am sorry, child. There is no easy road ahead for you. But be guided by me and perhaps I can smooth out some of the roughest patches."

From the small noises in the quiet that followed, Ezekiel could tell that the filling of that ocean had already begun. His own mind was swimming with the weight of everything he had heard. Stuffing the stethoscope back in his pocket, he retraced his steps back to the door, stumbling in his haste to get back up the stairs and running the last part of the upper corridor to the castle end of the wormhole. He hurried through and slammed the door behind him, leaning back on it with his eyes closed and thoughts racing.

"Momma nearly catch you?" Stone quipped from across the room.

Ezekiel started and opened his eyes to see the whole team gathered around the central desk. "What the...? When did...? Huh?"

"When Miss Cillian and Mr Stone found it necessary to return they found their door was off-line," Jenkins informed the young man with terse formality, his eyes fixed on the item on the central desk and his back to Ezekiel. "Upon investigation, I discovered that someone had removed their identifier and replaced it with one of his one. I replaced the latter with the former, retrieved Mr Stone and Miss Cillian, then returned the items to their previous position, allowing you to return without the indignity of having to telephone me and beg."

"You wouldn't really have..."

"Would I not?"

Ezekiel swallowed and stepped forward to join the others. As they made space for him at the desk, he saw the item that had garnered such attention was a set of battle garments. "They don't look Japanese."

"They're not," said Flynn, his eyes warily darting from Jones to Jenkins and back. "They're Macedonian. They're a replica of the armour of Alexander the Great."

"And they were at Cassandra's parent's house?" Ezekiel's brow creased in confusion.

"Nope," replied Eve with a wry smile. "Guess again."

Ezekiel looked from the Senior Librarian and his wife to his two more junior colleagues. Stone had his arm around Cassandra and she was staring at the item with dull, red-rimmed eyes.

"What happened?" Jones asked in a small voice.

"I, we, checked everything in the library at my parent's house," sniffed Cassandra. "There was nothing major. Nothing particularly powerful at all. Not even the old manuscripts and maps in those drawers. We were beginning to think that maybe their door had been opened at the other end after all. Then, when we were heading for the door, Jacob mentioned something and suddenly I saw it. The big picture. The whole library, as if I was on the outside looking in. It wasn't any one item, it was all of them! Ezekiel, most of the books, papers and relics have been in that room all my life!"

"We made our excuses," Jacob continued, drawing Cassandra closer as sobs choked off her story. "Came back here. Told everyone. Everyone that was here, that is. We described the four suits of armour that walked through the door too. That's when Flynn thought it might be a good idea to check and see if the armour of Alexander that we had was actually the real deal. Turns out it wasn't. When we recovered it from Dulaque's warehouse, it had already been switched for a replica. We think the real one was in the Cillians' library."

"Which means that somehow, my parents are connected to the Serpent Brotherhood," Cassandra cried. "They had the real one: a fake wouldn't have shown Alexander the Great's face when it... when it did whatever it was they did. We all know the Serpent Brotherhood wouldn't let something like that out of its sight. Not after going to such trouble to hide it from us."

"And who knows what else they switched," added Charlene wearily. "I know they had some warning after two runs of disappearing boxes, but they couldn't have changed everything for replicas, could they?"

"We know they took some items, like Fenrir's chain," sighed Jenkins.

"And others they left alone," added da Vinci. "I've had a number of them object to their new positions in the Library. Some rather painfully. It is like reorganising a museum where exhibit is a diva, perfectly capable of making their voice heard if they are unhappy. It is quite tiresome."

"But if that was the case," Ezekiel pointed out, "if they work for the Serpent Brotherhood, and it's the Serpent Brotherhood who want the artefacts, then why would they move them? Maybe they put the items back into circulation and kept an eye on them so they could get to them when they wanted them. If that was the case, your parents wouldn't have to know anything about it."

"That doesn't explain why my parents, who are world renowned scientists, have been building a magical wormhole in their library since before I was born. That room was specially built. My parents designed it themselves when I was five. I remember it being built!"

Jenkins looked up at this, staring ahead in unseeing thought. He looked at Cassandra, looked round at the back door, then looked at Cassandra again. "I fear Miss Cillian is in the right here," he mused, still avoiding Ezekiel's gaze. "I fear her parents, or one of them at least, may know much more about the Library, and Librarians, than they would like us to believe."


	21. Episode 5: Chapter 1

**Episode 5: The Shared Narrative We Agree To Believe, Chapter 1**

"We have to talk to my parents again," Cassandra sighed, her breath catching. "I'll go. I think they owe me an explanation after this."

Jenkins pulled a face and was about to speak when Stone cut across him with an offer to accompany the distraught redhead. He took a breath and began again, but this time it was Flynn who beat him to it.

"I would quite like to have a word with Professor and Doctor Cillian too, actually," said the Senior Librarian thoughtfully, watching Cassandra the same way a microbiologist might watch a Petri dish. "I'd be more able to find out just how much they know, perhaps."

"Speaking of what they know," added Eve, cutting off Jenkins' third attempt to break into the conversation, "do you think they know you suspect them?"

"If they did they gave no sign of it," shrugged Stone. "We just told them both that Cassie's Dad, John, had been knocked out and rambled a bit as he was coming round. That he might have concussion and that we thought he'd been hallucinating a bit. We left him in the... well, in the _presence_ of his wife, and then we left. We did say we'd come back at a better time though."

"And by 'we', he means 'he'," quipped Cassandra dryly, her ever expressive eyes betraying just how much she looked forward to the promised visit.

"Let's leave it a little," suggested Eve. "I don't know about you, but I'm more than a little worried they switched out one of the artefacts and none of us noticed."

"She's right," nodded Charlene. "We know now that we need to keep an eye on Cassandra's parents, and we will do, but what we don't know is what other damage those snakes did to our inventory. We don't even know when the switch was made! For all we know, they could have been gradually replacing items in that warehouse for months before we ever came across it. Well, you, I suppose. That's another story I've yet to be told in detail."

"I detailed the position of every item I removed from those boxes," mused da Vinci. "The list should be in my workroom. I included notes on those that reacted, either well or badly, to their new positions in case of future rearrangements. I shall return with it _rapidamente_."

"Bring it to the main Library floor," Eve called after him. "We'll meet you there."

Jenkins raised a finger and opened his mouth again to speak, but the others had already turned towards the door. All except one. Behind the old man, Ezekiel's voice broke through the descending silence.

"What is it?" Jones enquired, all hints of joviality or jest gone from his voice. "Something's worrying you."

" _You_ have been worrying me for months now," grumbled the Caretaker. "It never bothered you then. Why should my worrying over someone else bother you now?"

"That's not fair," he young man pointed out, with a sick feeling in his gut that contradicted his words even as he spoke them.

"You say that so often," sniffed Jenkins. "I wonder what your basis for comparison is?"

XXXX

"I don't think it would the best idea for you to visit the Cillians," said Eve, drawing Flynn to one side when they reached the ark of the covenant. "Not at first anyway. Let Cassandra and Stone go on their own for now. This is personal for her, and painful."

"Are you saying I'm not a supportive boss, darling?" Flynn enquired, throwing his wife a charming smile at the endearment.

"No, _dear_ ," responded the Colonel. "Just suggesting how you could be a better one. You try, Flynn, but when was the last time you actually led a team? Properly, I mean, and alternate universes don't count. You've been letting them work autonomously until now, and they're good at it. Let them take the lead in this and be there if they need you. They'll let you know when they do."

"They didn't when our silicate oracle in there announced the end of the world was nigh," he reminded her.

"They had good reason not to and they've done just fine without us," she pointed out.

" _Una_ _lista_ , as promised," called out da Vinci, waving the rolled up article above his head as he joined them. "There is a rather extensive number of items. Where would you wish to begin?"

"Best begin at the beginning," replied Flynn, holding out his hand for the list. He took the roll of pages and flicked through them. His eyebrows rose. "Was there really that much?"

Eve removed the sheaf of papers from his hands and started distributing them amongst the gathered team members, pairing them up as she went. "Stone, Cassandra: you take the first four pages. Charlene and Leo, you take the next. Flynn and I will take these four. That leaves the last four for..."

"I think I'm capable of working alone by now," cut in Jenkins.

"I don't recall saying you weren't," smiled the Colonel, squaring her shoulders and turning to the knight. "But we don't know what damage has been done or what we're going to find, so we work in pairs on this. Clear?"

Jenkins narrowed his eyes her. "Crystal."

They set out into the depths of the library, papers in hand, each pair gradually turning down a different aisle of bookshelves and display cabinets. Flynn and Eve were the first to separate, heading down the central aisle with the rest, past Midas and the Spear of Destiny, past Tesla's death ray, and John Logie Baird's first television, until they reached a long display headed by an Incan death mask. They turned down between the walls of displayed items and stacked scrolls, resting neatly in their diamond shaped shelves. Flynn's fingers dancing through the air as he counted off the relics. Before they had traversed a third of the full length of the aisle, he had found the first item on their list.

"Montezuma's Knife of Death. One traditional sacrificial knife, Aztec," he recounted, pulling on a pair of gloves before lifting the item off its stand. "Chalcedony blade, turquoise and shell encrusted wooden handle depicting an eagle warrior. It was used to cut out the hearts of warrior prisoners, captured during battles, to sacrifice them to the sun god. Probably more used by the priests than Montezuma, but the big names get all the credit in History. The Aztecs believed that any warrior properly sacrificed would ascend to the heavens to become an eagle warrior, a guardian of the sun god."

"Please tell me we don't have to cut anyone's heart out to find out if it's the real one," said Eve, reminding her husband of the purpose of their visit.

"Er, no," Flynn admitted, much to his wife's relief, "but we do need the blood of a warrior. If it really is the knife of death, as soon as the blood of a true warrior touches the blade, it should shine like the sun."

Eve groaned and rolled up her sleeve. "Is there any chance this is going to turn me into an eagle?"

"Not that I know of," shrugged Flynn.

XXXX

"Are you planning on doing all of this in silence?" Ezekiel enquired, trailing along behind Jenkins as they made their way through the fairy tale section of the Library. "Well, silence on your end, anyway. I can talk the hind legs off a donkey whether you answer me or not. I mean, it's not that you were ever particularly chatty. Not where terse and laconic would suffice. But even they require _some_ form of communication." He paused and watched the back of the old man's snowy head for some sign of reply. When none was forthcoming, he winced, then went on as subtly as a battering ram. "You're going to have to talk to me sometime. Even if it's just to tell me what we're looking for, or what we've found, or, you know, the usual 'Mr Jones, do not touch that', or 'put that back very carefully'. Or one of those endearing insults we've all come to know and love."

Jenkins stopped by a spinning wheel so suddenly that Jones almost cannoned into the back of him. The Caretaker removed a small, flashing device from an inner jacket pocket and pointed it at the wheel. He nodded at the readout on the device, then replaced it in his pocket and ticked an item off the list.

Ezekiel Jones paused at the spinning wheel to examine it more closely. He was just reaching out a hand to the item when the words "Mr Jones, do not touch that!" floated back along the aisle to him.

XXXX

Charlene and da Vinci made their way into the large collections annex. The veritable giants of legend towered around them. Apathetic in the extreme, Charlene glanced at the items on their list and turned towards the stairs.

Da Vinci skipped ahead of her and offered her his arm. "Mi permetta, mia bella!"

Charlene paused to look distrustingly at the proffered limb. "I'll manage."

"I do remember exactly where I placed each item," Leonardo reminded her. "If you would just tell me which one we are looking for first, I am certain I could guide you to it directly."

"Newton's first telescope," replied the erstwhile receptionist, "and I'll still manage."

XXXX

Stone and Cassandra turned down the avenue of artefacts that marked the beginning of the Long Gallery. While, in some Tudor mansions, the term may have been used to describe overhanging balconies or even slightly larger than usual rooms devoted to the display of the decorative arts, in the Library, the term took of a more literal meaning. Much more literal.

Paintings, sculptures, sketches and potsherds lined up into a guard of honour as they passed. Occasionally, Cassandra would spot something she vaguely recognised as such-and-such, by so-and-so, but for the most part she trailed along in her faux fiancé's wake.

"Nearly there," muttered Stone, murmuring the names of the artists _sotto voce_ as they proceeded. "Here. Escher, M. C., Maurits Cornelis, Dutch mathematical artist. Item entitled "Convex and Concave", nineteen fifty five."

"Oh-kay," frowned Cassandra, peering at the picture. "Woah! Oh, okay, it just switched perspective. Is it supposed to do that?"

"Darlin' every version of this picture does that," grinned Jacob. "What they don't do is this. Watch."

He drew her back a step and pulled a coin out of his pocket, then flicked the coin at the famous lithograph. With a barely audible pop, it began rolling down a flight of steps in the picture.

"I'm guessing that means it's working?" Cassie enquired, entangling her fingers with his but keeping her eyes fixed on the impossible progress of the coin.

XXXX

Ezekiel Jones was starting to find it difficult to keep up with Jenkins. They, or Jenkins, at least, had ticked off half the items on the first page of their list, and the dearth of conversation was starting to get to Jones. Maybe he hadn't listened before. Maybe he had been pigheaded and selfish. Now he had questions, though. Questions he really needed the answers to. Questions only two people he knew could answer. One of them he didn't dare ask. The other was doing a fabulous job of ignoring him. When the erstwhile knight stopped at another item on their list, he decided to bite the bullet and speak up. Jenkins ticked the item off their list and turned to move on.

"I know about Flora," Ezekiel blurted out.

Jenkins froze.

With the taller man's back to him, Ezekiel had no way of knowing what emotions may or may not have been betrayed by Jenkins' face. Part of him wished he had spoken while the man was still half turned towards him at the last relic.

"What do you know?" Jenkins intoned slowly, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"I know she's the original Cailleach, the granddaughter of the fairy princess," replied the young man. "I know she's the source of Dunvegan's power, and that that power is now passing to Seonaidh. I know that she's dying. And I know that you loved her."

"You know nothing, Ezekiel Jones," murmured the old man.

"Don't I?" Ezekiel pushed.

Jenkins white head bobbed from side to side. "You know Flora's origin, that much is true. And she is dying. As for her power passing to your girlfriend, no. The power in Seonaidh is her own, just as the power in Flora is her own, and will die with her. No what is passing between them now is the burden. The responsibility. They are the human link to the Fae worlds. One of them anyway. Such links, bound by blood, are few and far between. Dunvegan is much more than a simple repository for a collection of Celtic clan curiosities. The Cailleach is much more than just it's guardian."

"But you _were_ in love with her once, weren't you," pressed Ezekiel, sure now that he understood his mentor's adamant stance on his own relationship with Seonaidh.

"No," replied the knight simply.

"No?" Ezekiel's brow wrinkled.

"No," repeated Jenkins. "I was not in love with Flora _once_... I still am."


	22. Episode 5: Chapter 2

**Sorry this is taking so long, folks. Work is busy and, as you'll see, this one needs a bit more research than most.**

* * *

 **Episode 5: The Shared Narrative We Agree To Believe, Chapter 2**

Eve stepped back and surveyed the item in Flynn's hands. "Why do I get the feeling this one's going to be my turn again?"

"Er, possibly because of the aura of war that is coming off of it," suggested Flynn.

"Really?" Eve quipped. "There was me thinking it had something to do with the fact that everything in this aisle seems to be war-related!"

Flynn glanced back along the rows of weaponry, shields, tactical books and other devices that might conceivably be used to get the better of an opponent in a fight. He looked back to the ancient gold drinking cup in his hands. It was dual handled, similar to a quaich, but instead of projecting horizontally from the rim, the two handles were formed from the meeting tips of the outstretched wings of two stylised ravens, one on either side of the cup.

"Go on," sighed his wife, "what is it, what does it do and how do I test it?"

Flynn looked at the cup for a moment, then looked up. "It is a communal drinking cup, Celtic origin, showing two opposite Morrigan ravens. It was used to imbue the warriors with the spirit of the war goddess Morrigan before a fight. All they had to do was drink from it and they would feel no fear, and no pain, for as long as the battle lasted."

"Well, that's one way to get dead!" Eve snorted. "Every good soldier knows that fear is what keeps you alive. It keeps you sharp. I know some people think fear is cowardice, especially when they haven't actually experienced anything like it themselves, but cowardice is only giving in to fear. Courage is being afraid, and doing what you have to do anyway."

"Spoken like a true warrior," smiled Flynn, not meeting her eyes. "You know, maybe I should try this one. There's nothing that says it only works on warriors."

"There's nothing that says it wouldn't work on you even if it did," smiled Eve gently. "You've been battling the forces of evil for nearly half your adult life, Flynn: that counts. But we need your brain in good working order. It's better that I try it."

"No," Flynn shook his head. "It's safer if I try it. If it works it won't affect my ability to reason or remember, only to feel fear, and I'm not brilliant at that anyway. That's why I need you: you see the danger, the tactics, the things I ought to be afraid of, the things that might kill me. I can't risk you losing that. I can't risk losing you."

Eve turned his head to hers and held his gaze. She kissed him softly, then leant back. "Ditto. Now give me the cup."

"If we were not married, in love, or even friends," he asked, "what would your tactical assessment be? Who is better suited to try the cup: the professor or the colonel?"

"I can't lose you," she whispered.

"You won't," he murmured, "as long as you're here to keep me safe."

XXXX

Jenkins ran his hand over the golden item that rested on its custom made stand. It wasn't the item on his list, but it was good to see it all the same.

"What's that?" Jones enquired, still trailing behind his mentor. "Next item?"

"Family heirloom," murmured Jenkins, his fingers tapping lightly at the shelf by the stand. "My grandfather gave it to me when I returned to him after being made a knight. All great warriors were presented with a torque in his day. He presented his own to me even as I took his place as head of the family and guardian of our treasures."

"Your family had treasures to guard too? Like Flora's?" Jones frowned. "Where are they?"

"Here," replied the old man with a dry half smile. "Where else?"

"Then why can't Flora bring her family's treasures here too?"

"Maybe one day," Jenkins shook his head. "Not now. Not while the castle still stands and the McLeods are still known."

"Then the place where your family's treasures were kept was destroyed?" Ezekiel deduced. "Your family name: that's gone too?"

"The next item is a bronze mirror, hand held, Celtic, approximately two thousand years old," read the old man, ignoring Jones' question. "It may need a bit of polishing first, but it is said that, if you look into it you will see there a reflection of your true self. I would not recommend trying it: nobody ever sees what they hope for ."

XXXX

"How exactly do you intend to test that?" Cassandra queried, eyeing the pair of items suspended from her love's hand with her head tilted to one side.

"Well, it's a long way to the next item on our list, as I recall," shrugged Stone. "If these guys work, we can get there in next to no time."

"There's that 'we' again," she retorted. "You do know there's only one pair of moccasins there?"

"Darlin' these are the original 'seven league boots'," he laughed. "At least if they're real, they are. I put these on and I can go from here to just about anywhere in the blink of an eye, taking anything, or anyone, I carry with me."

"You've been reading too much Longfellow," she told him, pulling a dubious face.

"He got the story somewhere," shrugged the cowboy. "Here, gimme a hand while I put these on."

XXXX

"Why exactly did you put the telescope in the Large Collections Annex?" Charlene asked, ticking the item off her list. "It's not exactly large."

"I considered that it might appreciate having something to look at," shrugged da Vinci. "The next item on the list, as it happens."

Charlene looked down the list. "Aristarchus' Armillary Sphere. And where in your great wisdom did you put that?"

Da Vinci pointed along the winding suspended path in front of them. At a junction, where the path they were on forked out to make two more, stood a metal frame. Propped in the centre of the frame, resting in a hammock-like cradle of silk, was a mechanical sphere about half the size of the globe Jenkins used to power the back door. Charlene looked at da Vinci and raised a wordless eyebrow. She stalked forward and peered at the sphere. In its centre was a reasonable facsimile of the sun, with six planets orbiting it at various distances.

"Well, it's here," she observed. "How do we test this one?"

In answer, da Vinci leant forward, picked up the sphere and threw it up into the air. At the zenith of its arc, it froze, then suddenly expanded, projecting all six planets outward and in motion. The sun at the centre blazed with light, making Charlene raise a hand to shield her eyes. When she cautiously removed it she could see the sparkle of projected stars far beyond the outer limits of the sixth planetary orbit. She inspected the planets, noting the small moon orbiting the third.

"Saturn's rings are missing," she pointed out.

"It was three centuries before the advent of Our Lord," da Vinci pointed out in turn. "Give the man some credit!"

Charlene folded her arms and looked up again. "How do we turn it off?"

XXXX

"Okay, I've done one, you've done one," counted out the Colonel, dragging her spouse through the bookshelves by his cravat. "Next one's my turn."

"And put the life and or sanity of the woman I love in danger?" Flynn piped up. "Never! I'm the Librarian. If there's any testing of artefacts to be done, I'll do it!"

"That wasn't the deal and you know it," Eve reminded him.

"Never let it be said that Flynn Carsen was afraid of a little magic! Oh!"

"When did you say that thing would wear off?" Eve tugged the cravat as her husband got distracted by yet another shiny sharp object. "Come on! Where next?"

"To the map room! Third left, fifth right and two doors down!"

"Please tell me that's just a room where we keep maps," sighed Eve, marching onward.

"What else would you put in a map room?" Flynn frowned. A jade and jewel hilted Mughal dagger caught his eye. "Ooh, the dagger of the Emperor Akbar, buried with him in sixteen oh five. I remember retrieving this from his tomb at Sikandra five years ago..."

Eve glanced back and saw the hand go out to the crimson and gold scabbard. She tugged on the cravat again. "Nope!"

XXXX

Cassandra looked around them, letting the world settle around her again. Apparently magical travel through an extra-dimensional space did not agree with her synaesthesia. She kept a hand on Jacob's shoulder as he placed her back on her feet. Maps of the library unfolded before her eyes, attempting to match up with the visual points of reference around her. Nothing matched.

"Where are we?" Jacob murmured, removing the moccasins from his feet.

"I have no idea," replied Cassie. "I've never been this deep in the Library before. I don't see anything I recognise."

"Well, we must be getting somewhere near the right bit," he deduced, pointing at an item two bookcases away. "That looks like a Mexican God's Eye to me. Eye of God, mask of a god. They oughta be in similar categories. The Mask of Dionysus can't be far."

"We know the moccasins work anyway," shrugged Cassandra, ticking them off her list and falling into step beside him as they headed towards and past the God's Eye. "How do we find out if the Mask of Dionysus is genuine?"

"Dionysus, also known as Bacchus, was the god of wine and revelry," Stone supplied. "He was worshipped by the Romans, the Greeks and the Minoans. He was also linked to theatre. I wouldn't be surprised if the mask is a precursor of those the Greeks used to use in their plays. They would exaggerate the facial features of the character and help project the voice to those in the furthest seats. Maybe this one does something similar. If we find it, surely we can't be _that_ lost. Even if we are, maybe we can use the mask to project a call for help?"

"What were those masks made of?" Cassandra asked, pausing to look down a side aisle.

"It varied," shrugged Jacob. "Wood, linen, other easily moulded but lightweight stuff. Made them fairly short term though. There are no original examples that I know of."

"Were they ever made of amber?" Cassie enquired, tugging his sleeve as he moved to walk on.

"What?" Jacob looked down the side aisle, his gaze following Cassandra's pointing finger.

On a plinth, under the glow of a light that seemed to be turned into liquid gold as it passed over it, was a large, bearded, amber mask. It was notably Greco-Roman in its features. Her fingers slipping down his arm to entangle with his, Cassandra led the way to the luminous visage.

XXXX

The map room was, to the Colonel's relief, nothing more than a room with maps in it.

"Why do they have their own room?" Eve asked.

"Same reason they do in normal Libraries," replied Flynn, wandering round the room and running his fingers over glass panels that encased some of the oldest maps Eve had ever seen. "It's a controlled environment exactly built to house them. Some of these are very delicate, and very powerful."

"What do they do?" Eve's tone became wary and she caught Flynn's wrist as he reached for a drawer handle. "My turn, remember?"

Flynn drew back, holding his hands up in surrender. "Maps change how we look at the world," he said. "The Map of Eratosthenes is no different. It was the first to include lines akin to latitude and longitude. Its maker had worked out the circumference of the Earth and applied that knowledge to what was already known about the geography of the discovered world around him. Had Columbus paid more attention to Eratosthenes and his calculations, he might have worked out sooner that it was not the far side of Asia but a new, undiscovered, continent that he had landed on."

"So what am I looking for?"

"Ancient parchment, bit dog-eared, obvious horizontal and vertical lines and a clear outline of the Mediterranean and the countries surrounding it, although their further edges get a little bit less accurate."

"Like this?" Eve indicated the contents of the fifth drawer she had opened. Flynn put his head on her shoulder and looked down.

"That's the one," he replied, wrapping one arm round her waist and reaching out to the bronze handle to lift the glass panel. "All you have to do is touch it and something should happen. I'll be here all the time."

"Any idea what?"

"Nope," he shook his head and kissed her cheek. "That's the best part."

XXXX

"Well, I warned you not to look into it," sighed Jenkins, striding on ahead of a confused and distraught Jones. "Now you have, try not to touch anything else! Especially not our next item!"

"Wh-which is?" Jones stammered, hurrying to keep up with the older man.

"Schleiden's Microscope," he snapped back. "Schleiden was a co-founder of cell theory, along with the perhaps better known Theodore Schwann, who, frankly, I always found the most irritating of men. Schleiden's propositions in 1938 were so controversial in some areas that numerous long running arguments were started over it. However, the data he backed his arguments with was so bulletproof, at least for the time, that arguing with him on any matter of his research was about as likely to succeed as trying to wear down the wall of China with snowballs. Of course he was no stranger to the less strictly scientific side of research, and he guarded his research, both magical and mechanical, the way a tigress guards her cubs. It was rumoured that the microscope he used to view the plant cells was magically augmented to give a clear and precise picture of reality in the minutest detail. It was also hexed. For Schleiden, it showed him exactly what he wanted to look at: the clear details of the cells he was studying. For others who tried to view his work without his permission, it showed rather more than they had bargained for, and a number of duels broke out in consequence. In fact, there were so many duels, and indeed deaths by duelling, in Jena in 1839, that foil-fencing was banned! Of course, like a woman's wit that flies out the casement should one shut the door upon it, the individuals involved simply switched from foils to sabres."

"I think I've had my fill of reality for today," muttered Jones, catching up with Jenkins beside a shelf of scientific minutia.

The old knight reached out to a short, squat tube and pressed a button on the side of it. The tube elongated and sprung up from a metal stand, a small dial popping out on one side with a whirr of mechanics. Jenkins pointed his gadget at the contraption. Nothing.

"So it's a fake?" Jones surmised querulously.

"Not necessarily," murmured his companion. "Here: hold this and point it at the microscope. If it registers anything - anything at all - move the scope away from me. Some of us have more reality in our past than others."


	23. Episode 5: Chapter 3

**Episode 5: The Shared Narrative We Agree To Believe, Chapter 3**

The sound of giggling echoed through the depths of the library. It was childish giggling: joyful and unstoppable. The fact that it came from two fully grown adults was utterly irrelevant.

XXXX

The large collections annex had been growing. It had also been reshuffling itself. Leonardo da Vinci stood, arms akimbo, considering the collusion of collectibles before him.

"Tell me you did not put those items in the same room," sighed Charlene.

"It is a very large room," retorted the retiree reluctantly. "They did not seem to cause any problems at the time."

"Thomas Cromwell was the first great spymaster of the mechanical age, and an even wilier politician," she pointed out. "There must be a dozen different artefacts related to him in that mess, including an original copy of the Oath of Supremacy and the codex he kept all his undercover intelligence operations in! Of course they didn't do anything at the time!"

"On the positive side, at least we know they work," offered her victim in recompense.

"Work!" Charlene's voice rose. "They have barricaded an entire branch of the large collections annex and are refusing to let us past!"

" _Mea culpa, mia signora_ ," bowed the artist. "But, if I may, it is at least not a blanket refusal."

"True," admitted Charlene, "but we only get past if we can crack Cromwell's cryptography codex and pacify his printing press! Ye gods, I swear I'm starting to sound like Flynn!"

"You sound as delightful as ever, _bella_ ," grinned da Vinci. "You forget: that Oath of Supremacy in there was drawn up only fifteen years after my supposed death. You don't think I spent all that time hiding in France did you?"

"Hiding in..." Charlene cast a sharp glance at her companion. Da Vinci grinned an irritatingly supercilious smile and realisation dawned. "You knew him, didn't you."

"He didn't get _all_ those ciphers and secretive solutions from thin air, you know," da Vinci puffed out his chest like a peacock. "Although, I will admit it was quite the education in espionage."

"Oh, get over yourself, James Bond!" Charlene groaned, her lip curling in derisive tedium. She walked over to the codex, which was hovering in mid air like a vigilant, oversized bat, its pages folded into a complex concertina of vellum, and, before da Vinci could stop her, pulled at a seemingly random sheet two thirds from the start. The codex glowed, its light enveloping the pair. When the glow had faded, a perfectly normal-looking, if ancient, tome was lying on the path and the way ahead was open. The sixteenth century, hand operated printing press Cromwell had used to flood England with pamphlets extolling the virtues of the newly formed Church of England stood to one side, neatly folded up and exuding an air of attention.

"How?" Leonardo blinked.

"Come on," sighed Charlene. "Let's find the next one."

Da Vinci shook his head and followed her, his ears still ringing from the brightness of the light. As he passed the press, his foot caught on something. Stooping, he picked up a pale piece of paper. His eyes cast themselves over the words printed on the page, then he crumpled the sheet and shoved it in his pocket. Turning briskly back to the path, he followed the slowly shrinking form of Charlene.

XXXX

"Where the heck are we?" Eve's voice rang out. All around them was a dusty, cream-coloured haze. The only items visible were what looked like the struts and beams of some huge metal framework high overhead.

"Well," mused Flynn, looking around them, one arm still wrapped around his wife's waist. "If I didn't know better..."

"Flynn!"

"I believe we are in the map, dearest," he replied hurriedly.

"In the map?" Eve echoed. " _In_ the map?"

"Yes," nodded Flynn, still casting about him for clues. He raised his free hand and pointed. "See the lines over our heads, criss-crossing at right angles."

"But we were in America!" Eve's voice stayed risen.

"The two are not mutually exclusive, darling," pointed out her husband. "Besides, technically we were actually in a multidimensional pocket universe only anchored to our own at America. You've used it yourself to cross continents in a heartbeat!"

"Dear," said Eve, smiling sweetly. "Call me 'darling' like that again and you'll be anchoring yourself somewhere else for a week!"

"Our apartment only has one bedroom."

"And yet I have five different types of martial arts training."

"I'm sure Lysistrata would be proud."

"If I ever meet her I'll be sure to let her know."

The dusty cream cloud that had engulfed them seemed to resolve itself like a specimen under a microscope. For a moment the beige tint to the world lingered, then it dissolved into the clarity of sunlight on a warm summer's day. This particular sunlight seemed to be shining on a hill overlooking a burgeoning city. A hill on which Eve and Flynn now appeared to be standing.

Eve blinked. "Where the heck are we?"

XXXX

Jenkins ducked. Jones dived for cover. The rain of fish had been one thing, but now there seemed to be a hail of charcoal.

"What did we do?" Jones yelled across the firing alley of the aisle, holding one of the thicker volumes from the nearby shelves up as a shield.

"Are you cold?" Jenkins called back from below an actual shield he had removed from the satchel slung over one shoulder. The same satchel that had held the magical Geiger counter he had been testing the artefacts and relics with.

Jones did a double take. "Why the blazes would I be cold? I've just spent five minutes dodging fish and now it's chucking down charcoal! I'm roasting!"

"I thought as much," the old man nodded. "We need to get to aisle seventy five, shelf ten. Can you hear that ringing?" Jones nodded back silently. "That's the alarm system in the electromagnetics section. Designed by Benjamin Franklin to tell him when his prototype lightning rod was electrified. We put it to a slightly different use when we captured Clerk Maxwell's Demon. The little sprite had a habit of escaping in the early days and it feels like he's done it again. He'll get bored with the charcoal soon. When he does, stick a hand out to the middle of the aisle and tell me when you feel the difference. This side's freezing!"

"What's in aisle seventy five?" Jones asked, jumping as a stray lump of Charcoal hit his leg and gave him a small shock. "What the..."

"Charged charcoal, courtesy of the Joseph Priestley section," commented Jenkins. "One of his many experiments before taking up his position here. Don't let them get near his dephlogisticated air!"

"Why?" Jones asked darkly. "What is it?"

"Pure oxygen," Jenkins grinned back. He twirled the fingers of his free hand upwards into the air and puffed out his cheeks. Jones got the idea.

"Oxygen plus electricity bad," he muttered, "got it. Where might that be now?"

"Aisle seventy four," his companion informed him. "Priestley's experiments never did like being too far apart."

"And letting two highly volatile halves of an incredibly explosive whole sit right next door to each other seemed like a good idea to who exactly?"

Jenkins held up his hands in a shrug that denied all knowledge of the arrangement's origins. "As long as the demon was trapped, they were fine."

"So how do we trap this demon?" Jones asked, emerging from behind the book as the last chunk of charcoal rolled by him. He stuck a tentative hand out into the centre of the aisle, withdrawing it with a yelp. "There's something there. Some kind of barrier."

"Ah, that sometimes happens," nodded Jenkins sagely. "The demon controls what passes from one side of the barrier to the other. We need to find Franklin's Leyden Jars and the kite and use the latter to get him back in one of the former. Then we need to lock it with Priestley's Burning Glass."

"Priestley's Burning Glass?" Jones frowned.

"Nearest thing to an oxyacetylene torch we have nearby," Jenkins admitted, replacing the shield in the satchel and removing a thick fur coat. "At least without stepping over to the dragonology section. And time is of the essence here."

Jones looked him up and down. "Why? You certainly seem prepared for the cold."

Jenkins followed his gaze to the coat. "What this old thing? I have a wardrobe full of them. Very easy to get lost in too. Always handy to have one in your work bag for emergencies. No, it's you we need to worry about."

"Me?" Jones replaced the book on the shelf. It caught his finger between itself and its neighbour. He withdrew it with another yelp of pain. "I'm fine. I'm not the one freezing to death!"

"True," Jenkins nodded, leading the way down his side of the aisle. "But cold can't kill me, I have all the water and the temperature difference is only going to increase the longer the demon is loose. Oh, and I'm not the one who just put Murphy's Law back on the shelf."

Jones glanced back at the book, read the title on the spine, and promptly tripped over a rogue lump of charcoal.

XXXX

Streamers of ivy spread across the bookshelves. A garland of the plant around her neck, Cassandra danced and twirled to silent music. Her laughter rang out, joining with Jacob's, as he took her hand and spun her into his arms.

"You're adorable," he giggled, "but I ain't too sure you should be wearin' that darlin'."

"It was made by America's most famous seamstress, so it can't be too bad," she giggled, dancing away from him and pirouetting in her new outfit. It was wrapped around her and tied in place with more streamers of ivy. Ivy tangled with her hair and wound bracelets around her arms and legs.

"It's the original Stars and Stripes, Cassie," he chuckled. "I fear we may be committin' some kind of felony treatin' it like that."

"Like you've never broken a rule in your life, Jacob Stone," laughed Cassie. "Who's going to know? What harm can it do?"

Suddenly, Cassandra's body went rigid, her arms held out, away from her sides. Her eyes glazed over with an opaque cloud of opalescent white and her body started to rise.

Stone giggled and pointed an ivy clad arm at her. "I warned ya! Now look what you've done!"

Cassandra's lips moved silently, the ivy spreading up her arms and legs all the while. Below her, helplessly locked in hysterical laughter, Stone staggered and tripped over the vines entangling his ankles.

XXXX

Charlene stopped in front of an ancient box camera on three wooden legs. It was the first, and therefore special. Testing it was easy. One simply inserted a photographic plate into the back of the box, held a light in front of it for thirty seconds or so, then removed the plate. If the camera was genuine, it would have caught the image. In normal cameras, that simply meant a picture of the light would appear on the plate. In this case, thanks to the power of belief and the focus of the camera, the object of the light itself would be transported onto the plate and trapped there, only to be released when the plate was broken. She looked in the bag next to the camera for a plate and withdrew one carefully.

"Hey, da Vinci," she called, examining the bag's other contents. "Get over here and light one of these candles!"

Silence.

Charlene looked up. She looked around. Leonardo da Vinci was nowhere to be seen.

She groaned, resting her hands on her hips. "Oh, for the love of..."


	24. Episode 5: Chapter 4

**I shall apologise now for the pun.**

 **I'm afraid that it just had to be done.**

* * *

 **Episode 5: The Shared Narrative We Agree To Believe, Chapter 4**

"Cassie!" Stone called, stamping a petulant ivy-entangled foot on the ground. It thudded dully in the mossy turf below him. "Cassie! Get down here! Damned Dionysus. Damned ivy. I told ya it was a bad idea to go near that thing. Get down here! Help me outa this!"

"Choices," murmured Cassandra, her pearly eyes seeing a world unto herself. "So many choices."

"What you sayin' up there?" Jacob slurred, watching the several floating images of Cassandra resolve into three, then five, then two, then one. He blinked and there were five again. He shook his head and looked away.

"I choose this way, and I choose one future. I choose that, a different future beckons," murmured the gently bobbing Librarian. "I see them there: I see them all. Such pain, such happiness, such sweet sorrow. I see the child that I will one day hold. I see the tears that I will one day shed. Tears of love, of hope, of joy, of despair. I see the graves of all I love: my friends. I see the fate of all humanity. I watch the mountains fall, the seas run dry, the earth laid bare and all but magic lost. I see the loss of love, the birth of hope. I see my own end: by true love's kiss I was saved and by my true love's hand I die."

The verdant forest around them grew still and silent. Jacob Stone staggered backwards and fell, his eyes never leaving the softly descending body of Cassandra. As soon as her feet touched the ground, the opalescence left her eyes and her knees folded. Jacob, still encumbered by vines and twining tendrils, was too slow to catch her. She pushed herself up to sit back on her knees as he reached her side. He stretched out a hand to remove the garlands of ivy but stopped when he saw the fear in her eyes.

"Cassie, I would never hurt you," murmured Jacob, his words still slightly slurring. "You know that right? Whatever you were seein' up there, it ain't real. It ain't ever gonna be real."

"It was real to me," she replied in a small voice, the ivy dissolving away into the air like salt into water. "Excuse me. I think I should go put my own clothes back on."

Cassandra clambered to her feet, holding the timeworn flag around her, then paused, noticing for the first time her surroundings. "Where are we? Where's the Library."

"I dunno: Athens, Delphi, Troy," suggested Jacob, dragging himself back to standing, still wreathed in ivy. "Woman called Cassandra looks through the mask of Dionysus then starts prophesying her own death, I'm gonna go with the latter."

"I thought Apollo was prophesy, Dionysus was wine?"

"Dionysus was a lot of things," Jacob hiccoughed. "Maybe not prophecy, but revelry. And enough... revelry to make you think it was a good idea to dress up in, in that. It's the original flag, Cassie: it has to have some sorta link to all the nations hopes and dreams for the future linked to it."

"So you do think it was a prophecy then," Cassandra accused, stepping back. She wrapped her arms round her delicate frame, holding the flag in place.

"No! Cassie: no," Jacob held up his hands. "We have tripped something, done something, that has messed with our heads. We were in the mythology section when this started. Age of the Greeks, baby: they were always messin' with someone."

Cassandra stepped back again and shook her head. "I think I need to find my clothes."

Jacob Stone shook his head clear of the last of the ivy as Cassandra disappeared. At some point in their discussion at tree had sprouted and grown to maturity beside him. Without turning, he punched it. It punched him back.

XXXX

Ezekiel Jones had never been one for the cold, but at this very moment it was looking more than a little appealing. The sweat dripped from his brow, his neck, his back, and numerous other places he didn't care to think about. He would have been certain there was more water on the outside of him than the inside, had it not been fizzling away into his very own personal cloud. As if it wasn't bad enough that the haze and the sweat did their best to obscure his vision, there now seemed to be more light on his side of the barrier than previously. Colour was being washed out of his surroundings and twice he had walked into overhanging artefacts, several times into items left strewn about his side of the aisle only, and once he swore he had felt something akin to a tree root trap his foot under it and send him sprawling.

On the darker side of the divide, Jenkins was barely visible: a monstrous, white, perambulating figure that made Jones seriously consider the origin of most yeti sightings. Through the mournful wail of the blizzard on his side, Jenkins halted and yelled to his sweltering companion two feet away.

"Mr Jones, I fear we have a problem," called the snow covered man to the sweating one.

"You've only just noticed?" Ezekiel rasped back, wishing that somewhere in this desert there would be a cool drink.

"Other than the difficulties we are currently labouring under," growled the old man. "Just to your left you will find the side aisle that leads to the Priestley section."

"The one with the explosives pretty much side by side," cut in Ezekiel.

"Indeed," nodded Jenkins, causing a shower of snow to fall from his hood. "You may also note that there is no divide down that side aisle. I cannot accompany you. You will have to retrieve the Burning Glass on your own, and you will have to do so with alacrity as the dearth of heat energy on this side of the divide suggests that the dephlogisticated air we spoke of earlier is probably approaching the point of spontaneous combustion."

"Can you, just once, say something in nice, easy, good old fashioned, plain English?" Ezekiel groaned.

"Hurry up and get the Glass before this whole place goes boom!" Jenkins yelled back. "Plain enough?"

"It'll do," grinned Jones, despite himself. "Any suggestions on where to look?"

"Down that side aisle," Jenkins pointed to the gap in the shelves behind Jones, "second right..."

He was still talking. Ezekiel was sure of it. He could see his mouth moving and his gloved hand gesturing directions. There was just no sound. None at all. None except the faint fizzing of the sweat on his arms. Ezekiel groaned.

"Heat energy, then light energy, now sound energy," he muttered, hearing his own voice grow fainter as he said it. He shook his head at Jenkins and pointed at his ears.

The veteran knight nodded and reached into his satchel again, this time withdrawing a notebook and pencil. His hand shaking with the cold, he scratched out a brief map of directions and held it up to the divide. When Jones nodded, he turned the page and scrawled the words 'You get the Glass, I'll get the rest. Meet back here.'. Jones nodded again and turned, walking into the corner of the bookshelves as he did so, then disappearing into the light-flooded depths of the shelves.

Jenkins rolled his eyes, drew his hood closer around his head, blocking out as much of the increasingly vociferous blizzard as possible, and trudged on through the drifts of snow on his side of the divide. The kite and the jars were easy enough to retrieve, he pondered, but then he wasn't the one that had upset Murphy's Law by using it as a crude cricket bat!

XXXX

There were many strange and wonderful relics in the Large Collections Annex, especially this deep into it, but Charlene was quite sure a flock of Herdwick sheep was not among them. A sea of stocky faces, and stockier, woollier bodies, blocked the path before her. Chewing stoically, the lead ewe held her eye and stamped. Charlene crossed her arms and glared. The other ewes held their ground. One or two stamped a stubborn hoof. Charlene raised an eyebrow. Ovine eyes flickered nervously. Nostrils flared. The lead ewe lowered her head. Charlene glared. The sheep shuffled. Charlene glared. A shiver ran through the flock. As gently as the fall of night, the mass of woolly white fused into one, its legs and faces fading into a haze. The cloud dissipated over the edges of the walkway, drifting down into the depths below.

"Oh joy!" Charlene groaned. "A Library half full of mind-altering artefacts and somebody has to go and annoy one!"

She cast her mind back over her movements thus far. Nothing she had touched could affect reality or the way one perceives it. Nothing except the printing press and its honour guard of course. There had been no error there, though. She had solved the codex a hundred times before if she had done it once. Cromwell may have been a genius, but he was a well studied one, in some fields, and the codex had become the Library version of a mildly challenging sudoku puzzle for Charlene long before. Well, one had to have something to do while the brains of the outfit were off being gormless. And forgetting their receipts.

Well, if it wasn't something she had tripped, it must someone else's error. And if someone else's error was affecting her then the item in question must be affecting everyone, or at least everyone within its radius, however far that must be. So far, the sheep cloud had been the only thing she had noticed that was decidedly unreal, but in this place it was often hard to tell. She needed something to help her see the truth of the matter, and the closest relic with such abilities was two flights up and off to her left. Charlene could see its booth, glistening in luxuriant red velvet and gold brocade. The walkway, now clear and unencumbered by farm animals of any kind, forked off into a rising spiral that led up and round to the door of the box, supported by some means known only to the incomprehensible sentience that was the Library itself. She opened the door, enumerated with a large, stately, number five, and entered, wedging the door open under one of the gilded and red velvet cushioned chairs within.

At the very outer edge of the theatrical box, nestled in custom-made, velvet lined holders, were two pairs of gold-plated opera glasses. She grabbed one, then, after a moment's hesitation, removed the other also. The door rattled irritably against the chair.

"Alright, alright!" Charlene called to the air in general, retreating to the safety of the walkway and releasing the chair. "Keep your cloak on: I'm going!"

The chair slid back into its original position and the door slammed shut.

XXXX

"I have a bad feeling about this," murmured Eve as she began making her way down the hill. "Have you any idea where we are, Flynn?"

"Maybe one or two," her husband called over his shoulder, stretching out a hand to stall her movement. "Eve, turn round."

She turned, and her gaze travelled upwards. Below them, a city had spread out. Before her now, a flight of steps towered upward, reaching the Doric colonnade of a monumental building. A shiver of recognition ran through the Colonel. She had been here before. It hadn't looked like this though. "That's the gateway to the Acropolis, isn't it."

"In what one might call perfect condition," Flynn nodded cheerfully. "I always wondered what it must have looked like when it was still in one piece. This looks almost new."

"Almost new meaning?" Eve turned and glared at her beloved.

"Well, judging by the weathering on the supporting structures and the erosion, caused by feet, on the steps themselves, or lack of it, I would say this building is only around twenty-five to thirty years old. Of course the other clue is the rather large gathering of men in front of the temple of Athena over to the right, which, it appears, has been quite effectively barricaded. I would say that probably puts us at around four hundred and eleven BC."

"Because?"

"Because that was when the play Lysistrata was both set and first performed," shrugged Flynn. "Although I doubt they would be performing it in such a sacred place."

"I'm confused," sighed Eve. "Are we in a map, a play or have we just moved through both time and space completely?"

"Er, yes, yes and well," Flynn sucked his teeth, "sort of, I think."

"You think?"

"You're the one who mentioned Lysistrata to the map, dar... dearest."

"Actually that was you, my love," Eve replied through gritted teeth.

"But you're the one who said you wanted to meet her," Flynn felt the need to point out.

"Only because you brought her up!" Eve retorted. "I wouldn't know the difference between her up there and the Queen of Sheba!"

The beige mist descended once more.

XXXX

Tudor England was a dangerous place at the best of times. Hygiene was minimal. Sanitation was basic. Apothecaries were as happy to sell one snake oil as they were lavender oil, indeed happier as the former was considerably more expensive. Add to this the paranoid unease that pervaded the change from the rule of the Catholic Mary to that of the Protestant Elizabeth. At every turn in these well remembered streets, neighbour eyed neighbour, and everyone eyed the stranger. Especially those that had been seen in the company of the feared and respected Sir Francis Walsingham.

Da Vinci never let his glance settle, taking in everything and apparently focusing on nothing. The game was afoot. Spanish agents had been seen abroad in one of the lower taverns of the city and Walsingham had sent his most trusted ally to seek them out.


	25. Episode 5: Chapter 5

**Sorry about the wait, folks. Life's got a bit busy just now. Hopefully the final chapter of this episode won't take quite as long!**

* * *

 **Episode 5: The Shared Narrative We Agree To Believe, Chapter 5**

Eve looked around as their new surroundings resolved themselves into a cacophony of colour and crowds. Tall date palms towered over a narrow culvert running down into a broad pond in the centre of an enormous, circular, walled garden. White egrets and hook-billed ibis hunted in the reeds of the far bank, the occasional flurry of movement signifying the demise of a small fish or frog. Small groups of brightly robed people walked through the leafy paths, paying Flynn and Eve no heed at all. The heady scents of unfamiliar flowers filled the air, mixing with the spicier aroma of frankincense. Beyond the garden, elegant colonnades held up an ornate roof, creating a cloistered shelter from the heat of the sun. Behind them, a paved pathway led down carved stone steps to the shaded vestibule of a tall building.

"So it was the ruins in Yemen," mused Flynn by her side.

Eve looked at him, an expression of weary confusion written across her features. "Excuse me?"

"Well, you mentioned the Queen of Sheba and the map brought us here," her husband explained, waving an upturned hand at the vast expanse of architecture around them. "Thus, wherever we are, the Queen of Sheba is here also, and thus, as the rather unique layout of the surroundings matches one currently being excavated in Yemen, it would suggest that that is our current location..."

Eve held up a warning finger. "Do not say 'thus' again!"

"Therefore, the Queen of Sheba was not from Ethiopia, as popular belief holds, but from Yemen," Flynn finished.

"And you want to go and meet her don't you," sighed Eve.

"Well, if we ever bump into Emily again, can you imagine how thrilled she would be to hear about it? We might even be able to spot something she could dig up as definitive proof!"

"I thought she'd given up on Sheba?"

Flynn shrugged. "She says she has, but this could be just the thing to get her back on that track. I don't much like the idea of her out there digging up magical mythological mysteries and monsters. She has only the faintest idea about what she's dealing with."

"I thought that was a description of archaeologists in general," mused Eve. "Fine, let's go meet the Queen of Sheba. After that though..."

"I know, I know!" Flynn held up his hands in surrender, then grinned and grabbed Eve's hand, dragging her towards the steps.

The sunken antechamber was filled with noise. The percussive beat of a drum gave structure to the winding sound of pipes and the plucked harmonies of stringed instruments. Laughter and chatter in an unfamiliar tongue competed with the music for dominance. The scent of frankincense grew stronger and the air was thick with heat, sweat and perfume.

Flynn, still holding his wife's hand, moved through the crowd with an ease that suggested some invisible force surrounding them and parting the unconsciously moving people before them. They reached the steps upwards without incident and, although a tall guard stood armed at either side of the portal, Flynn and Eve passed through to the flight of stairs unhindered.

"There's something off about this," murmured Eve, interlacing her fingers with Flynn's in an effort to keep his enthusiastic advance under control.

"They can't see us," pointed out Flynn. "It's like everything the map shows us is some kind of illusion. A virtual world, rather than a real one. Like a three dimensional encyclopaedia of the known world."

They reached the top of the stairway and emerged into a sunlit chamber backed by eight tall columns and surrounding a dais on which a golden throne glistened in the light. The occupants of this chamber were far more richly dressed than those in the antechamber below, with gold decorating their arms, legs, necks, hands, and heads. On the throne in the centre sat a beautiful woman, whose smooth, darkly tanned skin, almond shaped eyes, and flowing, dark brown braids suggested an Egyptian heritage.

"Is that her?" Eve whispered in Flynn's ear.

"Must be," he replied. "I don't think they can hear us, you know."

"Does that mean you're not going to try and talk to her?" Eve asked, again in a whisper.

Flynn grinned at his wife. "Of course I'm going to _try_! We can't come this far and not _try_!"

He dragged her over to the dais, where a supplicant was just rising from his knees. Waiting impatiently for the peasant to make his way out of the throne room, Flynn filled up the space the man had vacated and knelt, pulling Eve down to her knees beside him.

"Greetings, o great and illustrious Queen..." Flynn began, then faltered when the eyes of the Queen turned directly to him. Suddenly, it seemed that the invisible bubble surrounding them had burst. All eyes were upon them, and great cries of astonishment and fear filled the throne room.

"Whoops!" Eve muttered under her breath.

"Greetings, o great and illustrious Queen," Flynn began again. "We come here as travellers from a distant land to see the fabled beauty of the Queen of Sheba. Tales of your greatness have spread to all corners of the earth and we came to see if they spoke true."

"And did they, traveller?" The Queen replied, in perfect English, fixing them in her gaze.

"No, my Queen," replied Flynn, with his most charming smile.

"No?" Eve hissed glaring at the side of her husband's face. "Flynn, are you trying to get us..."

"No," he repeated, squeezing his wife's hand. "The stories fall far short of the reality. You are far more beautiful, my Queen, than any tale can tell."

The Queen smiled. "You speak well, strange traveller, and in my own tongue too. What boon would you have for such a compliment."

"A token of your gracious self, my Queen," said Flynn, bowing obsequiously. "Any that you should see fit to grant."

The Queen beamed ingratiatingly at him and snapped her fingers. From the side of the room, a young girl arrived, carrying a tray. Another handmaiden stepped forward from behind the throne and, at a signal from her ruler, took up one of the long braids of hair. She bound the braid above its end, then again a short distance above that. Taking a knife from the tray, she cut the braid between the two bindings and handed the lock of hair to the Queen. The Queen rose and descended from her throne.

"Take this lock of hair as a testament to my beauty," she said, handing the braid to Flynn. She removed a ring from her finger and handed it to Eve. "And take this as a testament of your husband's wit. I am no stranger to those bound by heart. I know when a wife kneels before me."

"Thank you, o Queen," stammered Eve.

"I fear we must leave you now, my Queen," said Flynn, closing his fingers around the braid. "My thanks to you for this great token, but I believe the time has come for my wife and I to return home."

Even as the Queen bowed her head in farewell, she faded from view and the beige mist descended once more. This time, when it cleared, Flynn and Eve found themselves standing in the map room, looking down on the map of Eratosthenes.

"Were we here all the time?" Eve asked, looking up at Flynn. "Was it all just some kind of magical VR?"

"Check your hand," Flynn replied with a smile.

Eve looked down to find the gold and sapphire ring of the Queen of Sheba resting on her finger.

XXXX

Da Vinci made his way along the slightly less crowded thoroughfare of Seething Lane. His friend and master had been at home, as expected, grieving the death of his youngest child. Affairs of state never far from his mind, however, Walsingham had taken some pains to direct da Vinci, in his role as the aged scholar, Giuseppe Forliano, in the means of obtaining knowledge critical to the future of the English throne. He had consulted the venerable Italian sage at length regarding the influence at court of the charismatic doctor John Dee and the possibilities of the success of Dee's researches. Forliano had assured him that some means could be taken to remove Dee from court, but they would take some time if they were to avoid suspicion by her Majesty. A con man was known to the Italian, one Edward Kelly, who would easily be able to gain Dee's trust, given the right circumstances. The timing must not seem too propitious, however. Dee was an intelligent man, albeit a naive one. A problem, followed immediately by a solution, would not greatly tax his powers of deduction.

Forliano, as he always thought of himself in the time of Elizabeth, turned West at the end of the lane, heading for his lodging in Cheapside. In everything in life there is balance, he thought. Where Walsingham grieved the loss of his daughter's young life, another acquaintance and neighbour of his, one William Middleton, and his wife were rejoicing in the birth of their first child: a son whom they had baptised Thomas just some three months previous.

XXXX

Ezekiel Jones, World Class Thief, had never found his ability to locate an object of rare and precious worth quite so difficult to obtain. He knew roughly what he was looking for. Sort of. It was just some big magnifying glass, wasn't it?

His hands traced the outlines of books and artefacts. The sensitive fingers of a thief could tell a lot without the need for eyes. Titles stamped into aged leather bindings could be read as clearly as if he had plucked the book for a shelf in the comfortable safety of the reading room. He had reached the volumes by Priestley and was working his way methodically through the surrounding items.

In the solitary, solarised, silent, searing surroundings, his hand brushed against a fabric dark enough to show up even in that overexposed environment. Concealed below its folds, he could make out the shape of something like a desk lamp and its shade. He lifted the cover gingerly. Light flared off a corner of the lampshade-shaped object and the wood of the shelf below began to smoulder. Jones pulled the cover back over the glass and patted the tails of his shirt, tied around his waist, on the now glowing embers. That would be it then.

As sure as he could be that the library wasn't about to burn down around him, he hoisted the Burning Glass, cover and all, and hurried back the way he had came. Quick exits were at least something he definitely had in his skill set.

XXXX

The cold was irritating. Of course, it was absolutely true that any other current inhabitant of the Library - with the notable exception of Leonardo, who had been making himself as much of a notable exception as he could to basically _everything_ since the day he was born _anyway_ \- would be dead by now. Jenkins, however, was made of considerably stronger stuff. Like most semi-immortals, and, as Miss Cillian had once jovially reminded him, many bacteria, extremes of environment were little more than a discomfort. The only problems he had in retrieving the jars and kite from Franklin's slew of relics were those of detaching them from their shelves and stands, and of having to constantly remove the icicles from his brows to see what he was doing.

He had made his way back to the meeting point, pink fluffy ear muffs clamped over his ears in an attempt to drown out some of the cacophony screaming past them. The darkness was no trial to him. He knew this part of the Library like the back of his hand. Franklin, Priestley, Maxwell, and so many others. They had all been fascinating men, some of whom he had even had the honour of meeting. He had studied their work, the more so when it began to find its way to the Library. Whether the men themselves had realised or fully understood the impact of their findings in the magical, as well as the scientific, sense, he did not know. Well, other than Franklin, of course. Franklin had always understood far more than was good for him!

Absorbed in the noise-cancelling depth of his memories, it took a moment for the old knight to realise that his name was being called, screamed in fact, by someone on the other side of the dark divide. He shook his head, dislodging a small snowdrift and several icicles that had built up, and unstuck the kite from his hand. The wind was loud, but constant at least. He threw up the kite and unreeled it until an ancient iron key dangled within arms reach. Wrapping the string around his wrist, he dragged the lid off one of the jars and ran its open top along the kite string until he felt the key clink against the glass. A furious buzzing filled his ears, but he ignored it and moved the key into the mouth of the jar. With a shriek of rage and a flash like lightning, the demon was caught. The kite had been illumined with its energy for a mere fraction of a second, but it had been enough. Jenkins slammed the lid on the jar and the wind instantly dropped. Light returned like the dawning of a new day, and the wintry evidence of his past trials evaporated like dew in the morning. Jenkins turned to his young charge.

A half-dressed and sweat-soaked Jones held out the cloth-covered Burning Glass. "Please tell me you have a bottle of water in that bag!"


	26. Episode 5: Chapter 6

**Episode 5: The Shared Narrative We Agree To Believe, Chapter 6**

"You have got to be kidding me!"

Jenkins and Jones turned at the sudden exclamation. Behind them, Charlene stood with her hands on her hips looking incredulously at the pair of them. Dangling from one hand were a pair of gold and crimson opera glasses.

"What the hell happened to you two?" Charlene asked, pointing from Jones' sweat soaked shirt to Jenkins' still defrosting fur coat.

"Minor run in with Maxwell's Demon," shrugged Jenkins, dislodging a small avalanche that had melted to rain before it touched the floor. "Where's the painter?"

"Gave me the slip," tutted the erstwhile receptionist. "Something's off. The whole Library is playing up. I'm guessing somebody, possibly my currently absent faithful shadow there, has set off some reality altering relic that's gone on to domino through the entire collection. I was in the large collections annex when I spotted it. Borrowed these from the fifth box just to get out of there."

"Ah, of course: the binoculars from the Paris Opera House," Jenkins nodded, wagging a finger at the glasses Charlene held out to him. "They show the user exactly what goes on on the stage, or wherever else you look. Like much of the rest of that box, adapted to do more than it naturally should by a mad genius. You, er... You didn't disturb anything else in there did you?"

"Do I look like Flynn?" Charlene shot back. "I know this place too, you know."

Jenkins held up his hands in mute surrender.

"Somebody care to fill me in?" Jones piped up. "Something is messing with the reality in the Library, Da Vinci has disappeared and a pair of theatre binoculars are going to fix it?"

"Not fix it," Jenkins corrected, taking the glasses from Charlene and glancing through them. "Merely see where the problems are. Think of them like your ghost-hunting goggles, but for tears in reality instead. Ah, I see what you mean."

Jenkins passed the glasses back to Charlene, nodding to a nearby side aisle. She followed his gaze first with her own eyes alone, then with the opera glasses. With a wry face she passed the glasses over to the junior member of the trio and pointed him in the right direction.

"See the palm tree sticking up at the end of that aisle three rows down?" Charlene asked, turning Ezekiel's head in the direction of the object. "Look at it again with the opera glasses."

Jones raised the glasses to his eyes, and blinked. "It's gone," he said, frowning into the lenses. "It's like spears sticking up over the top of the shelves instead."

"Assegai, actually," corrected Jenkins. "It's the African Tribal section."

"How can you tell that from here?" Jones asked, still frowning through the glasses, but now looking all around him with them too. "You can barely see what type of spearhead it has."

"It's a very distinctive type of spearhead," shrugged the old warrior.

XXXX

"Are we back?" Eve quietly queried querulously.

"The map is back in its drawer, all locked up," whispered Flynn soothingly, although whether his tone was directed at his wife or his Library, Eve couldn't quite say. "I think we can safely say it works and tick it off the list, then move on to the next item."

"So it's safe to talk?" Eve pressed. "Say names of people and places and stuff?"

"Perfectly safe," breathed Flynn.

"So why are we whispering?"

Flynn opened his mouth to respond, then frowned. "I don't know," he said, his tones still lowered. "I think... It's like... Something feels wrong. Like when someone's been in your apartment and something tells you they're still there. Albeit, in my case, usually right before they clobber me on the back of the head with something."

"There's nobody else in the map room, though," murmured Eve, slowly turning full circle. "Or is there? Could there be somebody else stuck in one of those maps?"

"No," Flynn shook his head. "No, it's not that. If anyone was, I would have sensed them before, when we first came in."

"You sure?" Eve glanced at him. "You were still a bit out of it from the Morrigan cup thing."

"I'm sure," Flynn nodded, his features uncharacteristically serious and thoughtful. "Whatever it is, it's out there. Something's different, and it's affecting the Library."

"Is it affecting you?" Eve asked.

"Not yet," Flynn pulled a face. "I can sense it though, so it might. Or it might not. It might affect you instead because you can't sense it. Or it might affect both of us indiscriminately, or neither of us. Only one way to find out."

"Isn't there always," sighed Eve, stepping up beside him at the map room's only door. "Go on then, I know it's always your favourite part."

Flynn took his wife's hand in his, then reached out and opened the door. It swung open without incident. They stepped out into the main floor of the Library. Everything sat, quiet and peaceful, on the shelves and plinths and stands around them. They took another step forward. Nothing changed. Edging their way, step by step, Flynn and Eve reached the end of the first set of bookshelves. Still, everything seemed normal. They stuck their heads out into the side aisle that crossed theirs. They looked left. They looked right. They stepped out into the side aisle.

"You know I could have sworn..."

"Flynn," cut in the Colonel, her hand on her husband's shoulder. "Why does that elephant have a reflection?"

XXXX

Jones, Jenkins and Charlene hurried through the stacked shelves of the Library, the indomitable ex-receptionist in the lead, opera glasses in her hand.

"Of course our first item of business should be to find the artefact that old meddler set off and put it right again," Jenkins had dictated airily, back by the assegai.

"Gee, ya think?" Charlene had spat back. "And how exactly do you plan on doing that, sir knight, with a single pair of opera glasses and a Librarian who has never actually been as deep into the place as the Large Collections Annex? You and I might know what ought to be there or not, but the kid won't have a clue!"

"Hey!" Ezekiel had jumped in indignantly.

"He can use the opera glasses," the old man had shrugged.

"And what'll we use? Fairy dust?" Charlene had shot back. "You might be able to play spot the difference out here, but the closer to the source we get, the freakier everything around us will get. Trust me!"

"If you have a better idea, I'm all ears," smiled Jenkins, his eyes glaring daggers.

"Actually, I do," she had replied, a smug half-smile curling up one side of her mouth. "There are at least two more relics kicking about in this area with a reputation for showing people the truth, whether they like it or not. I suggest finding them first, one for each of you, then hunting down Flynn and the others and doing the same for them. Once we know they're safe, we can all go looking for the source, and the genius who messed with it, together!"

Jenkins had looked at Charlene, then at Ezekiel, then back to Charlene. "Here's a funny story..."

XXXX

Flynn gaped at the shape bearing down on him. "Did you say elephant?"

"What else would you call it?" Eve shot back, dragging him backwards down the side aisle.

"Well, I see a giant swan with a reflection," replied Flynn, allowing himself to be dragged. "I also see that the reflection appears to be an elephant, and that both are far larger than they ought to be and have a sheen and texture of colour that suggests brush strokes and paint, probably oils. Therefore, I would probably call it a Dali. Why it's out of its frame, on the other hand..."

"Come on!" Eve turned him round and dragged him into a run.

They ducked round one corner, then another, never considering so much where to run to as where to run away from. At each turn, it seemed, the elephant, or swan, was impossibly closer than before.

"This isn't working!" Eve yelled, leading her husband around another corner only to find their pursuer closer still. "Why isn't this working?"

"I have an idea!" Flynn yelled back, dragging her back to a standstill. He turned her to face him. "Do you trust me?"

"Only with my heart, soul, life and the lives of everyone in here and out there," she retorted.

"I can live with that," he shrugged, a faint grin playing on the corners of his lips. "Run!"

"We were running!" Eve pointed out.

"I know," nodded her infuriating husband. "In the wrong direction."

He grabbed her hand, turned them back in the direction of the swan-elephant and ran. They ducked back along the aisles and side aisles, keeping the creature in their sights. The faster they ran, the further away it became. Further and further it drifted away until finally is disappeared into the mists of the distance.

"It's gone," gasped Eve, panting for breath as they came to a standstill. "I don't think I've run faster since I really don't remember when!"

"Sometimes in here," shrugged Flynn, also gasping for air, "it takes all the running you can do to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that."

Flynn straightened up and looked around them. Tendrils of ivy wound their way over the books, boxes and bric-a-brac of the shelves and a green glow emanated from a gap up ahead. He pointed the greenery out to Eve in breathless silence. As they neared the gap, a low, keening music reached their ears.

XXXX

Ezekiel Jones tilted the bronze mirror around the corner of the bookcase. The corridor of shelves beyond had been filled with iridescent purple slime, oozing from every artefact. The reflection showed the truth of the matter: no slime, no oozing, nothing. The corridor was empty.

"All clear," he murmured.

"Right," replied Jenkins. "I'll hold the mirror. You get the microscope."

"You sure this will work?" Charlene hissed from Jenkins' other side.

"It'll work," he assured her. "Just let our pet thief do his thing."

"I heard that," grumbled Jones, returning with Schleiden's microscope in his hands. He passed it to Jenkins, taking back the mirror to use himself. "Isn't there something we can use to fix reality for all of us, not just one at a time?"

"There is one thing that springs to mind," nodded Jenkins. "It's on the other side of the Library, though. Along with everyone else!"

XXXX

Flynn and Eve turned a corner to find a grove of trees growing in the middle of the Library floor. The mournful music seemed to be coming from one large tree a short distance into the grove. They followed the sound, tiptoeing hand in hand over the mossy turf. Flynn stopped for a moment and tilted his head curiously, like a blackbird listening for worms. Eve, pulled to a halt by their grip on each other, looked back at him. He glanced over at her and put a finger to his lips. She nodded and let him lead her sideways, around the tree. Slowly, a figure came into view. Sitting in a loop of ivy, gently swinging back and forth, tendrils of bright green intertwining with the red of her hair, sat Cassandra. The ivy wound its way around her legs, arms and torso, almost completely covering the faded cloth that was wrapped around her. Almost.

"Is that..." Eve's voice trailed off.

"The first stars and stripes," Flynn nodded. "All the hopes and dreams of a nation just newly born. And all the fears too. I wonder which one she set off. Hope or fear?"

"How would either of those link to a forest sprouting up in the middle of the Library?" Eve asked dubiously. "And what's with all the ivy?"

"Ivy has a lot of links to different mythologies," replied Flynn, threatening a launch into one of his lectures again. "It means a variety of things in Celtic and Christian symbolism, but in Greek mythology it links to that guy over there."

Eve followed the line of Flynn's arm and pointing finger, and spotted the faintly glowing amber mask. "Who is he?"

"Dionysus," replied her husband. "Also known as Bacchus to the Romans. Son of Zeus and Semele. God of wine and revelry."

"That's the mask and the ivy," nodded Eve. "Still trying to link the flag and the mask."

"Well," sighed Flynn, "he is the god of drunken parties and, presumably, therefore, all the idiotic decisions that go with them."

"You think this thing got Cassandra drunk and _she_ decided to switch her clothes for the flag?" Eve's eyebrows rose. "What about Stone? Surely he'd have stopped her? Where is he?"

"Not if he was got by it too," mused Flynn. "You know I don't think it's a good idea to look at that thing. I'm starting to feel a little... I'm feeling a bit fuzzy."

Eve turned herself and her husband away from the luminescent visage. "All right, what's the plan? Do we just cover it with something and hope the effects go away?"

"Sounds good for a start," shrugged Flynn, fishing about in his satchel. He removed two large fabric items from its depths and handed one to Eve. "You take Cassandra, I'll take the mask."

"Shouldn't I take the mask?" Eve frowned. "It's the dangerous one."

"Possibly," shrugged Flynn, "but if that ivy disappears suddenly, I think Cassandra would rather it was you standing nearby with the spare shirt than me."

"Fair point," nodded his wife. "On three?"

XXXX

Guiseppe Forliano pondered the item in his hands. It had to be done, of course. Walsingham had ordered it done. And yet his conscience stirred restlessly at the thought of such waste of lives. Traitorous lives, who, should they be caught, would merely be condemned to a far slower, more agonising death than this. They may even be tortured first. Such was the nature of the time he lived in. Continued to live in. Beyond his allotted years. It had been a shock to his system when he first realised how slowly he was ageing, having spent years retrieving and disguising artefacts and relics for the Library. In his own person, as Leonardo da Vinci, he had almost carte blanche to wander the world in search of inspiration. To disappear for days, weeks, months, even years in some cases. He was known to be mercurial in nature. Famous for it, at least in Florence or among friends. Even among friends, though, there were limits. So he had begun painting a new masterpiece. Himself. Slowly, he had aged his features. Every now and then, he would pack up and move. Somewhere nobody knew him. Unfortunately fame has its downsides, however, and soon there was nowhere he could go without danger of being recognised. He had continued with his fake ageing process until an opportunity had arisen, and he had taken the great step of faking not his age but his death. His experience with disguises had allowed him to cross Europe incognito and eventually to find himself here, in England, under a new name and affiliated to a new master. A spymaster, nonetheless, who had recognised his talent for invention and code breaking. It had been an awfully big adventure.

He withdrew a small pamphlet from his doublet and glanced over it. As he did so, the world seemed to solidify around him. The sights, the sounds, and, above all, the smells of Elizabethan London filled his senses. A bell tolled the hour and he looked up. The day wore on. He replaced the leaflet and looked again at the device in his hands. It was only a small bomb, but sufficient for the damage necessary. He rose and tucked the bomb into a leather satchel. He would follow his instructions: plant the device and set the trigger mechanism. And he would pray that none but the guilty were harmed.

XXXX

Flynn tied a rope around the now towel-covered mask of Dionysus and turned to where his wife was ordering a shaking Cassandra, clad in Flynn's spare shirt and Eve's belt, to sip water, slowly. He smiled. Once upon a time he would have seen an army Colonel ordering around a new recruit after some indiscretion. Now he saw a mother instructing her unruly teenager on how to survive a hangover. Of course, in reality, the teenager would be a son not a daughter, at least if magically induced dreams and a trip to the future were to be believed. Just a son though? He had been an only child. It hadn't been the easiest way to grow up. There were worse though. But if they could have one child, what was to stop them having more, he thought. Just because they hadn't met them yet, didn't mean they couldn't exist. Young Judson had been very cagey about any kind of details when Eve had met him. Maybe he had a little sister who had been kept out of the way for the day. Maybe two. Maybe a little sister and a little brother. He became aware that Eve was watching him with an odd, querulous expression on her face, and hurried over.

"How's our rebel without a clue," he asked, looking down at the priceless flag now neatly folded and tucked safely onto a shelf. "Recovering well?"

"Getting there," replied Eve, watching him closely. "What was all that about?"

"All what?" Flynn blinked innocently.

"You know full well what," she countered, folding her arms and fixing him in her gaze. "I was watching you for a good ten minutes, standing there with this weird variety of stupid grins fighting for time on your face."

"I got quite close to the mask," Flynn breezed, brushing away the comment. "Probably still just bit giddy from it."

"Uh-huh," said Eve, disbelieving.

"You know, that mask on the loose explains quite a lot," nodded the senior Librarian sagely. "It messes with your mind, makes you see weird, random stuff like giant swans that turn into elephants and forests covered in ivy."

"Because who'd believe there's a forest in the middle of this Library," quipped Eve.

"Not on the main floor," Flynn pointed out. "Plus, it gives us one possible reason for the noted absence of our Southern gentleman."

"You think they both got got by it?" Eve asked, helping a wobbly Cassandra to her feet.

"Undoubtedly," Flynn nodded. "If Stone was here, there's no way he could have avoided it."

"He was here," whispered Cassandra, her voice groggy. "We checked on the mask together. I don't remember much after that."

"Then it is the mask that's causing this," decided Eve. "Do you think we've stopped it?"

"For now," shrugged Flynn. "We'll have to put it in a container of some kind to be sure. I'll talk to Jenkins about it."

"Talk to me about what?" Jenkins interrupted from a side aisle.

"Ah, Jenkins! The very man!" Flynn brightened. "The mask of Dionysus has been causing trouble. Altering personal realities. We have a towel over it for now, but we were hoping you could help me come up with something a bit more, well, permanent."

"The mask of Dionysus?" Jenkins frowned, looking round to Charlene.

"No, it can't be," Charlene replied, shaking her head. "We were in the Large Collections Annex when da Vinci went AWOL. There's no way the mask's affects could have spread so far so quickly. It would have had to be set off before we even left the office."

"Da Vinci has gone AWOL?" Eve interjected, her eyebrows rising once more.

"He was right behind me until just after we passed Cromwell's Printing Press," Charlene explained. "Then things started getting a bit freaky Friday on me and when I turned round he was gone. I assumed it had something to do with the press. It's the only relic with reality altering capabilities we went anywhere near. Well, other than the Armillary Sphere, but that doesn't seem to affect us now we know more than it does."

"Aristarchus' Armillary Sphere?" Jenkins asked with mild interest. "You know the ley lines globe is based on that."

"Yeah, I couldn't get _it_ to come back down either!" Charlene grumbled with a roll of her eyes.

"But it can't be the printing press," pointed out Cassandra. "Stone and I were nowhere near the Large Collections Annex."

"Maybe it was both," shrugged Eve.

"That, my love," breathed Flynn pensively, "is rather more like a coincidence than I am completely comfortable with."

"Maybe it was neither," murmured Jones from the back of the group.

"No, Ezekiel," said Cassandra holding up a hand in lieu of shaking her head. "We _know_ the mask was affecting Stone and I. There's no way it wasn't that."

"No, that's not what I mean," replied the thief quickly, moving to take centre stage, always his favourite place. "I mean what if it started with neither of them. What if it started somewhere else. Somewhere more central. And the press and the mask, well, they were just knock on effects. Like dominoes. I might not have a photographic memory or now magically enhanced synaesthesia, like you two, but I'm still a World Class Thief. I have a pretty good map of the ground I've covered in my head, and I know how to get to the Large Collections Annex too. This point here, the point where Jenkins and I encountered Maxwell's demon, and a big chunk of the LCA are all pretty much equidistant from the doors. The main doors. Whatever's causing this, it's not here or there. It's back where we started."

XXXX

"Are you sure that thing will work?" Eve frowned at the bundle in Flynn's hands.

"Absolutely," Flynn confirmed, striding ahead of the group like the world's fastest tour guide. "We find our first domino, and the sceptre will allow us to get close enough to reverse the effects without being affected ourselves. Myself, really, since I'm the one holding it."

"Again, should I not be the one approaching the potentially dangerous magical object with the hopefully foolproof magical kevlar vest?"

"Can you guarantee you'll know how to disarm it while the rest of us disappear into our own minds?"

"No, granted, but," Eve stopped short when Flynn put a finger to her lips.

"There are only two people in this room both currently sane enough and knowledgeable enough to stand a chance of getting this right no matter what item presents itself," said her husband quietly. "No offence, my love, but you are not the other person in this scenario, Jenkins is."

"Why can't these things ever just have an off switch," sighed Eve, her lips her own once more.

They got to a point where, even with the sceptre, Cassandra and Eve were beginning to become affected again. Charlene passed her opera glasses to the redhead and waved for the three men to go on without them. Flynn led the charge back to the space at the bottom of the steps down into the Library itself.

"Whatever's causing this must be near here somewhere," said Ezekiel. "We started here, and we each took a handful of sheets of ordinary paper with nothing more than a list of artefacts on them. There's no way it could have been the paper, right?"

Flynn and Jenkins both shook their heads.

"We all set off in the same direction," continued Ezekiel, turning and walking the route they had first taken then stopping where they had parted ways. "But there's nothing. Just all the same stuff we see every day. Granted the telly isn't usually on..."

"Wait, what?" Flynn cut in.

"The old television set, showing a black and white episode of Doctor Who," replied the thief, pointing. "I noticed it when we left first time round. It was on a William Hartnell one then. Now it's on to Patrick Troughton."

"That television shouldn't be showing anything," said Flynn, hurrying over. "It's John Logie Baird's."

Jenkins winced. "I thought it was odd," he murmured.

"What was?" Jones wondered aloud, catching the quiet utterance.

"Nothing, nothing. I just should have known better when I spotted it was on," admitted the old man. "I thought it was an odd time of day for the program it was showing, but that Leo or someone else had put it on while they were working nearby."

"The invention of television changed the world," said Flynn, looking down at a screen showing a documentary on the great pyramid at Giza. "It is the strongest reality altering artefact in the whole Library. That, gentlemen, is without a doubt our first domino."

Flynn hoisted the wrapped bundle in his hand and shook it free of its covers. A centuries old, battered, garden hoe was revealed. Using the wrong end of the implement, he pressed the power button on the television and the picture blipped off. He upended the hoe so that the tool end was uppermost, and slammed the opposite end down on the floor. A ripple reverberated outwards like dust from an asteroid strike, passing through people and pieces alike.

Jones, Jenkins and Flynn looked from one to the other.

"Is it over?" Ezekiel asked.

"It's over," nodded Flynn. "Now all we need to do is track down our missing historical artist and art historian."

XXXX

Jenkins closed the door of his lab behind him and leant back against it with a sigh. There was a reason he didn't go out in the field as much these days. He was getting old. It had taken him a while to admit to this - longer than most - but it didn't make it any less true. The sooner they dealt with this new branch of the Serpent Brotherhood, and their plans for the remaking of the world, the better. Then he could quite happily hand the reins over to the artist and let him deal with the day to day craziness involved in not one but four Librarians to wrangle. Then he could retire, rest easy, and spend whatever time he had left with her. With Flora.

He pushed himself up off the door and made his way over to the work bench. A discarded hand towel hung haphazardly over his smaller version of the magic mirror. He removed it and dropped it again in shock. A dust covered face peered out at him, panic in her eyes.

"Grandfather, you have to come now!" Seonaidh cried, her voice shaking in the grip of strong emotions. "Bring Ezekiel. Bring Cassandra. Bring everyone! We're under attack!"


	27. Episode 6: Chapter 1

**Episode 6: Loneliness and Adventure, Chapter 1**

Galeas lifted his weary head, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the red and golden glare of the setting sun, spreading like blood through the sky and fire through the water. His journey had taken him a month and more by the faces of the moon, and, even though he had left London safe in the hands of his friend Richard Whittington, as its new Lord Mayor nonetheless, the midnight sun of the northern summer was returning to its rest below the jagged line of the horizon. It would not get fully dark. Not for some weeks yet. Not here. He closed his eyes and breathed in the salt air of the ocean. He was close enough now not only to see the waves, but to hear them and smell them too. It had been too long since he last visited here. Nearly five score years had passed. There would be none left to remember him. None but the faerie folk, should they choose to show themselves. It was safer that way. Fewer questions, difficult questions, would be asked. But he had missed the beauty of the place. It would be different now, he reminded himself, walking onward again. Back then it had barely been able to claim the title of a dun, with the straggling buildings of the old Norse fort encompassed by their relatively new curtain wall, an addition of Leod Olafsson himself after his marriage and settlement there.

The trees rustled restlessly in the cool night breeze as he turned the last bend in the road that would lay out his destination before him. And there it stood. Dun Bheaghain. And this time it truly was a dun. The curtain wall still stood, just as he had left it for the most part, with some reinforcements in others. Within the walls, though, and towering above them, were high stone buildings, built to withstand the ocean's fiercest storms. Galeas caught his breath and blinked. The light was fading now, and the dun was silhouetted by the last rays of the setting sun, but it was a welcome sight to see the glow of a fire illuminating the narrow windows of the new buildings. A weary traveller might find a night's rest in such a place. An ancient of the family perhaps might find a few nights more.

Galeas cast his mind back as he walked onward, rehearsing in his mind the acquaintance he would claim. He might well say he knew Tormod Mac Tormod Mac Leod but by now Tormod would be long since gone. His first born son, Malcolm, had been but a babe in arms the first time he had visited the dun. He had been all of ten summers when he last visited it, with a younger brother hanging on his every word and deed. There had been a girl too. An elder sister, approaching the first bloom of womanhood with the rash stubbornness of the young, and the pride of a princess. It would be their children's children who held sway at the dun now. Malcolm would have inherited, all being well, and he it was that Galeas might claim to have some friendship with.

He approached the gate and a voice challenged him from the shadows. He replied with the family's motto and the pronouncement of his status as a friend to all within.

"You are no known friend here," rejoined the sentry. "I was born within these walls, have watched these gates by my father's side, and watch them now in his stead as my son shall do after me, and I know not your voice."

"I have not passed this way for a long time," sighed Galeas, pushing back the hood of his travelling cloak to reveal a head of hair as white as the moon that rose behind him. "When my bones were less weary and my sight less dim. When Malcolm Mac Tormod Mac Tormod Mac Leod walked the land within and you were not a speck of starlight in your father's eye. You have no reason to know me, but none also to doubt what I say."

"Of what name are you, stranger?"

"Galeas," he replied, lifting his head. "Of what name are you, friend, and of what your chief? For I must speak to him this night on a matter of some urgency."

"I am Iain Mac Tormod Mac Godfred Mac Iain Mac Tormod Mac Godfred Olafsson," announced the gatekeeper, "and I serve William Mac Iain Mac Malcolm, that was your friend, fifth chieftain of the clan MacLeod. Step forward, Galeas, friend of the MacLeods, and enter, and I shall bring you to our chief."

The hall was warm in comparison with the rapidly chilling summer air outside. Galeas waited, warming his hands by the fire, while the clan chief was roused and brought down. William MacLeod was a dour man, and being brought out of sleep after midnight was not a help to his temperament. He descended the stone stairs to the hall to find the new arrival awaiting him in the presence of his clansmen. MacLeod stalked over to the old man and stood, glaring up at him and considering his presence. Though but two summers past his thirtieth year, strands of silvery white flitted through his dark black hair, reflecting the glow of the candle in his hand. He held it up to Galeas' face and scrutinised its every detail.

"I have no memory of you," he growled. "Why should I grant you aught but the usual hospitality afforded a traveller in these isles?"

"My last visit here was before your time," replied Galeas patiently. "It was of some importance and I was assured that my name would be passed on should I return in need of your aid again."

"Our aid?" MacLeod frowned. "Our aid in what? Summer passes and autumn storms will soon be upon us. If you are here for fighting men you picked a poor time for it. Beyond that, I see not what we can offer in aid of any kind other than our hospitality. I know not your name, nor any tales of your deeds."

"But I do," said a voice. It was an old voice, but a clear one: high, feminine and lilting. The woman spoke from the shadows, but at a turn of the clan chief's head, she stepped forward. "This man speaks true," she nodded. "He is a friend here and we are bound by oath to aid him."

"What oath is this, crone?" MacLeod barked. "I known naught of it."

"It is an oath taken long before you were born, child," she replied, her tone hardening at the last word as she fixed a warning gaze upon the chieftain. "Galeas is an ancient of this place. He knows our secrets, and I know his. You do not know them, for, like your father and his father before him, you have never had reason to. I am the keeper of the clan's history, their secrets and their treasures. I know what must be known and I share only what must be shared."

"There is more must be shared this night if I am to let a stranger sleep within the safety of the dun's walls," growled MacLeod.

"Enough of your whining and arguing, boy," snapped the old woman, flames flashing in her eyes. "He sleeps this night here, with the men, in safety and peace. In the morn you will hear what he has to say, and you will hear it with patience and with respect. Then, perhaps, I may tell you as much as I deem should be told."

MacLeod's jaw tightened and he took a step towards the woman, but stopped. With a growl of frustration, he threw up a hand to his waiting retainers and gestured for them to do as the crone had ordered, then he stalked out of the room and up the stairs. Galeas watched him go, then turned his gaze onto the old woman to find her gazing sadly at the empty stairwell. Behind them, the clansmen disappeared to retrieve the necessary items.

"Do I know you?" Galeas asked, frowning in vague recognition. There was something about the stance, the proud turn of the head, the eyes.

"I was but a child when you last visited here," she replied, turning to face him with a mask falling back into place over her emotions. The anger was gone, the sparks of fire in her eyes dulled.

"That cannot be. I have not set foot in this place for nearly a century," he said, watching her steadily.

She gave a snort of laughter. "For a man who looks the same now as he did to a child of seven a full century ago, I dare say the impossible is not all that far off a land as never was seen on a clear morn over the waves."

Seven. She had been seven on his first visit. Sixteen on his last then. He searched his memory for a child, a girl, from either visit. He had spent so much time ensconced with the elders of the clan, he had not seen many children about the place. And of course, it had been so different then. But this child would have been different. A young girl first, and then a young woman, but not of the lower members of the clan. This would have been a girl with the bearing of a princess. His memory cleared. His eyes snapped up to her face.

"The daughter," he murmured, holding her now attentive gaze. "Eldest child of Tormod Mac Tormod Mac Leod. He introduced me to his eldest son, but not to you."

"Why should he? I am but a mere woman," she shrugged. "My brother was to inherit the name and the lands. His offspring would be those who remained here should you return. I would be married off to another chieftain's son and forgotten."

"Yet here you stand," he mused.

"Yet here I stand."

"Unlike names or fortunes, faerie blood does not distinguish between male and female," Galeas explained gently.

"Neither does intelligence," replied the old woman sharply. "Although I know which of those I worked out first."

Galeas felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Instantly The crone's gaze hardened.

"Do not mistake me, Galeas," she warned. "We are not friends, you and I. I know of you and of the importance of your quest. You do not know I. You know nothing of the person I am or the life I have led. You do not even know my name."

"Then, pray, tell it me," Galeas requested politely, holding up his hands and stepping back."

The old woman pinned him with a sharp glare, studying his features. Eventually, it appeared, she reached a conclusion. "It is Flora," she answered. "My name is Flora."


	28. Episode 6: Chapter 2

**This year's Valentine's Day special may be a little different from last year's, but I think we've been waiting for it for longer. Hope you enjoy.**

 **Thank you to my guest reviewer. That means a lot. :)**

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 **Episode 6: Loneliness and Adventure, Chapter 2**

Galeas awoke the next morning with an ache in his bones and a weight in his heart. The time was drawing nigh where he would have to explain his presence both to Flora and to the MacLeod. One might understand the news. Neither would be overjoyed by it. He rose, the quilted linen of his gambeson providing a bastion against the morning chill. His armour lay near at hand, the first time he had removed it since setting out on this latest quest. He looked at it thoughtfully, weighing up the protection it afforded him against its possibly threatening presence in so politic a meeting. Reaching into the deep canvas bag he always carried with him, he removed a long surcoat of deep green and dressed in that instead. Fully dressed, his armour carefully stowed, he secured his sword belt about his hips. Armour may be seen as a threat by the head of the clan, but no man would part him from his sword, friend or foe.

He made his way from the dormitory to the refectory, where he was met with a peat fuelled fire over which hung a cauldron of porridge. A clanswoman dutifully, but silently, handed him a wooden bowl of the oatmeal, complete with whittled wooden spoon. There was a spiral twist to the spoon's handle, and he thought to himself that someone in the dun's walls had a talent to share. The wooden trestle table in the refectory was quiet. Men came and went, eating their share, then disappearing to attend to their duties. None seemed anxious to make conversation with the stranger in their midst.

He left the empty bowl and spoon with the clanswoman and made his way outside, walking over land he knew well, through buildings he had never seen. Wooden steps led up to the walls overlooking the loch and he climbed up to look out at the narrow inlet. Directly below him was a gated doorway, leading out to the landing point he had first sailed in to a century before. To his right, the round, grey, featureless tower of the dun rose up from the walls. Behind him the smaller, lower, longer stone buildings of the refectory, dormitory, storehouses and other necessities thrived, people bustling from one to the other as they carried out their daily business. From the dun, however, there came no noise or movement. He looked out at the loch again, soaking in the unique beauty of his surroundings. A rustle behind him made him turn, hand on hilt.

"You have been a warrior too long, Galeas," commented Flora, watching him.

"I have been many things for many years," he replied, releasing his hold on the sword and descending the steps. "But then you know that, Flora. Or should I call you crone, as the rest of your clan does?"

"Flora will do," she said, her eyes narrowing. "I do not give out my name lightly, so when it is given, please use it."

Galeas fell into step beside her as she led him across the greensward to the bleak prospect of the dun. "How many here know?"

"My name?" Flora frowned.

"You're history," replied the wanderer. "Who you truly are."

"I was gone from this place long enough that it has been forgotten," she shrugged. "I returned when time had already turned my hair white. I have remained much the same ever since. Is it I or the place that has the doing o' that? Would you know?"

"I suspect it is partly both," Galeas nodded, pulling a face. "You are the granddaughter of a faerie princess. The first female child of her bloodline. Your father had many gifts from his mother's family, but you, it seems, bear the greatest, and the most terrible. The life of the fae is long. Far longer than the span of mortal life. Longer even than mine. You are but half fae, however. Your life will be extended beyond those of your kin, but not by as much as those of your grandmother's. I dare say there is more that comes with it than simply extra years on this earth?"

"There is," nodded the crone. "There is a deal of power in my veins too. Power that grew slowly and took time to learn the use of. And the hiding of. And of course, I cannot die."

"Cannot?" Galeas looked sharply at his companion.

"Where all around me fall sick and die of the consumption," she pointed out, "I alone survive. When the first stone buildings on this spot are toppled and crumble, I alone am taken alive from the ruins. When the knife-edge bite of winter brings death to young and old alike, and when good men starve in their beds and women weep for their lifeless children, I alone stand untouched by the ice. Is it such as this for you, strange ageless wanderer?"

Galeas looked down at his feet. "I suppose it must be," he replied, his voice pensive. "I have never been ill. Though I have been wounded, sometimes even unto death, my wounds have healed. I have been lucky, though."

"In what way?" Flora asked coldly.

"I have never had to stand by and watch those I love, my family, pass on before me," he answered gently. "My family, at least those I was close to, passed into the mists of time many centuries ago, and my work has led me on a solitary path since long before even then."

"That must be a lonesome life," sighed Flora.

"It is," nodded Galeas. "But a life filled with adventure is often such. And it is a life I would not trade."

"Why? Do your adventures fill it so completely?"

"No," he shook his head. "But I have a duty. An obligation to protect the world around me. It is a task I undertook alone at first, and for many years, with only one elder for guidance. Then others came. Some warriors, some not. They did not often last long. Especially the scholars among them. It was decided that they may last longer if each scholar was paired with a warrior. A guardian to keep them safe. They sometimes did. The last few centuries, I have been able to work independently of them, searching the lands of my birth for ancient talismans and relics, and settling arguments between the hidden folk."

"Which is it now?" Flora asked, opening the door to the dun. "Talisman or argument?"

Galeas sighed, drawing a hand across his brow as his eyes grew acclimatised to the dark, smoky atmosphere of the dun's interior. "This time," he replied, "it is both."

XXXX

The talisman had been a simple brooch, a not-quite-complete circle, gilded silver with Pictish knot work weaving around polished amber beads at the flared terminals. The craftsmanship of the brooch was the best that could be found in all the islands of Britain, either North, South, West or East of any border. It was just that craftsmanship that had brought it to the attention of a red cap in the border lands themselves. Unfortunately the brooch in question was one that had been promised to the queen of the faeries of the Black Isle, in hope of a marriage between a daughter of her tribe and a faerie prince of Northumberland.

The brooch had been retrieved. That was the easy part. Staying ahead of the now vengeful red cap, a murderous relative of the goblin, whose name was drawn from the dying of their caps in the blood of their victims, was more difficult. Galeas had described on that very first morning the many wards and charms he had used to hide and protect himself. He had also described, in detail, the reasons why these would no longer hold their power. The dun was protected by faerie magic, he had explained. He would have to call the fae of the Black Isle to him if he were to deliver the brooch and prevent a war between the faerie tribes.

All this had been told in secrecy to the MacLeod himself and to Flora. Had it not been for the presence of the latter, the former would have cast Galeas out as a madman. But Flora had been by, and had held in her hand a common, old, walking staff. She had reached out with the staff and touched it to the wooden goblet of ale on the chieftain's table. It had frozen solid. After that, he had been more willing to believe in magic.

The call had gone out weeks ago, but still they waited, for the fae are known to be a mercurial folk. The days shortened. The harvest drew nigh. Galeas became a known face within the dun's walls. At last, on the night of the harvest festival, while the young folks danced below the moon and stars, and Galeas and Flora watched the waves from the walls, the fae of the Black Isle arrived.

"Look there," whispered Flora, pointing out to sea. "Where the moon shines on the waves."

"I see it," Galeas replied. "Go, find William. I shall open the gates to meet them."

"And if the red cap is waiting for you?" Flora frowned. "You find William. I shall open the gates. I am the heir of the faerie blood in my line. I am the crone of the clan. If they are not to be met by our chief, then 'tis best they were met by me. What of the others?"

"This is not as uncommon as you may think," Galeas reassured her. "When the fae enter, all but those they have come to meet with shall fall into a deep slumber. They will see and remember nothing but the revelry."

He hurried off to find the clan chieftain and found him drinking with his wolfhounds in the place of honour at the feast. Whispering in the MacLeod's ear that the time awaited had arrived, Galeas brought the chief to his feet, a steadier man than one might have thought who had watching him drink that night. With a sign to his men and his dogs to remain behind, he follower the old wanderer across the greensward to the loch gate. They arrived at the gate just as Flora, leading a retinue of shining folk, stepped through it. The music, quiet though it had been from this distance, died away to nothing.

"Greetings, my Queen," said Galeas, humbly dropping to one knee. By his side the MacLeod did likewise. "Food and ale awaits you in the great dun."

"And my trinket?" The Queen's voice shimmered in the ears like the breeze through sunlit boughs on a summer's day.

"Safe, your highness," answered Galeas, his head bowed.

"Then we shall rest ourselves at your table while you tell us of your adventures Galeas," she announced. "Cousin, lead the way."

Flora, silent and obedient, had led the party to the dun, where a store of ale and of food had been kept in readiness for the intervening weeks. Galeas and the MacLeod, rising only once the last of the fae had passed, followed the company into the tower.

Morning broke, spilling bright golden light over the hills like ale from a barrel. The people of the dun stirred, rousing themselves from sleep and finding themselves lying out in the open, the fire at the centre of their revels dying low. Only three people rose from their beds that morn. The wanderer, the crone, and the MacLeod. They said nothing of the night's work to the people, but watched in careful silence as the clan began the work of the day once more.

That evening, Flora was walking with Galeas along the curtain wall. "What will you do," she asked, "now that your task is done?"

"I am still a target of the red cap," the wanderer shrugged, "but at least, thanks to our faerie friends, we now know that target has a time limit. A year and a day. I've eluded worse foes for longer."

"Perhaps, but there is another option," suggested the crone.

"Is there?" Galeas turned his head to look at her. "Other than trespassing on the hospitality of your great-nephew for the duration of the hunt, I can see no alternative."

"And you can think of no better reason to wish to remain here than that?" Flora asked, her gaze steadily out to sea.

Galeas smiled and turned to face the waves with her, laying his hand softly over her own. "I might."


	29. Episode 6: Chapter 3

**Episode 6: Loneliness and Adventure, Chapter 3**

Sleep, when he had not been long encumbered with hardship and toil, was of little necessity to Galeas, and he often rose early, before the rest of the clan who had given him shelter. The year had turned cold and the winter solstice grew near. Food was scarce, kindling more so. Every day the children of the clan went out along the shore in search of driftwood to supplement their dwindling supply of peat. The smith's forge lay quiet and still, its embers cold and lifeless. Whatever ironwork needed doing in the depth of winter, would have to wait until the thaw, when men could go back up to the moor and cut more peat. Nothing but the greatest emergency was to cause the lighting of the forge until sufficient fuel was found to last.

Galeas stood on the curtain wall, the boundary of his world for the time being, looking out to the sea loch below. The sun had not yet risen. The moon had set. The stars were covered over with cloud. It was the blackest of nights. The fourth of the night watches had just changed, making it about the sixth hour after midnight. Galeas stood, a silent sentinel, listening to the sough of the waves, watching and thinking. Always thinking.

"What secrets do the waves whisper to you this morn?" Flora murmured, stepping up beside him on the wall.

"No more than the usual," he answered, his gaze still fixed westward.

"No lights on the water?"

"None."

"Nor shall there be," Flora slipped an arm through his. "We have food enough yet and the folk are gathered in the dun for warmth at night. There is no illness in the clan. No threat of an attack. Not from the humans of this world nor from that powrie you angered."

"Death is never far away at this time of year," replied Galeas. "Red Caps have been known to lay siege to their targets before now. Our supplies are shrinking. No more grain has arrived from the south of the island in over a month."

"In this weather, that is not uncommon."

"Maybe," he allowed, "but maybe there is more to it than that. The first snow has still to fall. There has been only wind, rain and ice to contend with, and the first two have never stopped your supply before, have they? Why should the ice make the task more difficult?"

"What weather there is in the north of the island does not necessarily match the weather in the south," Flora pointed out. "You cannot know that..."

In the same instant, both watchers froze, Flora's grip tightening on Galeas' arm.

"Teine sith," she whispered.

"Will o' the wisp," nodded Galeas. "Lights on the water. Come, Let us see what can be done. If anything."

"If nothing can be done," murmured Flora, holding him back a moment, "the fault is not with you."

"I brought the Red Cap to your door," he replied, shaking his head. "If any of these people die from its interference, that fault is mine and will stay with me to the end of my days."

Picking their way carefully down the wooden steps in the frozen darkness, the two elders found their way to the dun. The warmth inside was tangible, and it blanketed them as soon as they entered. The scent of multiple unwashed bodies was even more so, and hit them each with a force enough to make them recoil at first. But such was the norm for the lower floors of the dun in bad winters. Out at the edge of the world, the clan lived together, or died alone.

Flora and Galeas separated, winding their way through the rows of huddled, sleeping bodies, surreptitiously checking each for signs of illness or difficulty. They met again at the far side of the single ground floor room, silently exchanging looks that conveyed their findings, or lack thereof. Flora pointed upwards. Galeas nodded, and followed her across the room again to the winding stairs that led up to the chieftain's private rooms and those of his direct family. They ascended quietly, but not quietly enough to startle the clansman on guard. The man nodded in recognition and stepped aside, bowing as the two elders passed.

The rooms on the second floor of the dun were divided into two uneven parts by a woven willow partition. The stairs opened into the smaller of the two chambers, where a long wooden bench waited by the curtained door to the larger room. Galeas held the curtain back and waited for Flora to precede him into the chieftain's meeting hall. A second staircase led out and up around the side of the dun to the third floor, where the MacLeod and his family slept. The room on the third floor was partitioned also, this time into five chambers. The first chamber was a simple slice of the circular stone room that housed another vigilant guard. Beyond the woven wall, another joined it, perpendicular to the first. Doors at either end of the first wall led through to each half. Beyond them, a third willow wall crossed at right angles, dividing each half into two smaller rooms. Flora led the way into the right hand rooms first, passing quickly through the chamber that was her own and into the room that housed two sleeping boys, Iain and George, just five and two years of age. She ran a fond hand through the unruly blond curls of the elder, tucked the woollen blanket closer around the younger, and kissed each child's forehead.

"They sleep easily," she breathed as she returned to Galeas' side. "Now let us check that their mother and father do likewise."

The first chamber on the left side was inhabited only by two more clansmen, sleeping after taking their turns on watch earlier in the night. They checked the sleepers gently then moved on. Galeas paused at the curtained door to the chief's bed chamber beyond.

"Perhaps I should..." he began.

"Please," Flora waved him into silence. "I helped birth him, and I bathed him and clothed him more times than he cares to remember. I've tended his wounds and those of his soldiers, and I've had two husbands of my own to boot. There is nothing beyond that door I haven't seen. But if _you_ would care to wait here, of course..."

"I am a guest in this house," he replied, holding up his hands in surrender and stepping back. "These are your people. It is your right to take charge of their well-being."

Flora reached out a hand toward the curtain.

"And your funeral if you wake him in a bad mood," Galeas whispered with a smile.

"If only!" Flora growled under her breath.

The curtain swung shut behind her, and Galeas let the mischievous smile fall from his face. His brows knotted, his eyes downcast, he let his memory wander back through his time in the dun. He replayed each conversation with Flora, finding sentences here and there that, put together, wove a dark and troublesome picture for him. It was an issue that must be addressed, but not here. Not now. Not today.

She returned with a rustle of the woollen curtain, and led him out of the guards' chamber. Together they made their way down the stairs to the chieftain's hall. There, Flora beckoned him onto a stone bench built out from the very wall of the dun. With lowered voices, they were far enough from the partition wall and curtained doorway that the guard there would not hear them.

"All is well," she murmured. "None in these walls sicken or are ill at ease."

"Death is not always caused by illness, starvation or cold," Galeas reminded her.

"I have seen enough of it in my time to know that, old one," she retorted. "I've had a harder time predicting the others though, and an even harder one preventing them."

"Then there is nothing to be done," he sighed. "I feared as much. We must keep the clan within the walls today. The faerie magic that protects me here will protect them also."

"We cannot keep everyone under lock and key for the whole day," Flora pointed out. "The fires burn low and we have little enough wood to fuel them with. We must send some out when it is light to gather what driftwood they can. I will go with them, but I cannot collect enough alone to serve the wants of the whole dun."

"Then I will go with you," suggested Galeas. "I am harder to kill than any others here, and it is by my doing that this danger waits by your door. I will not allow innocent others to risk themselves in my stead."

"I find 'innocent others' very rarely care what you and I will or will not allow them to do," retorted Flora, rolling her eyes. "Danger has walked these shores long before you or I did."

"Speak for yourself, little girl," muttered Galeas under his breath.

"I'll speak as I find, old man."

Galeas glared at her, and was met with folded arms and an ice blue gaze as steady and immobile as the dun wall behind her. He threw up his hands, having learnt early in his stay at the dun that there was little point in arguing with that catlike stare.

The East was turning golden-edged shades of peach and pink when they returned to the grass before the dun, and as they climbed the steps up to the curtain wall, the growing light reflected on the rippling water of the sea loch. They stood there, watching the changing colours of the sunrise reflected in the ever-shifting waves, until the rising noise level behind them told them the dun was awake and moving. Their argument on hold until it could be brought before the MacLeod himself, they picked their way back across the greensward to renew it in his presence. As both had expected, the recalcitrant William cared little for their superstitious fancies, as he called them, and would not hear of keeping the clan within the walls for the day. Nor would he accept the alternative that Flora and Galeas alone went out that day. If Galeas was so much more indestructible, then why was he sheltering there in the first place. Better he take himself to some other protected place where there were no weak women and children to suffer for his errors. Flora's lips thinned to the tight, pale line at this. It was five years since William had taken his place at the head of the clan; a second son, it was true, and one trained more for the clergy than for leadership. But the man was no idiot, she thought, keeping her features blank and inscrutable, he surely knew by now that there was truth in the old tales. He had met a faerie queen. He had known Flora herself all the days of his life, and had not in all those thirty two years seen her age. What more proof did he need? Her face was white with rage when she left his presence some half hour later.

Galeas took Flora by the arm and led her aside. "He is young," he said, his voice low and soothing. "Young and headstrong. And still grieving both a father and a brother. He is new to too many worlds. Give him time and he will see he's a fool to ignore your advice."

"My advice?" Flora snorted. "It was your advice he ignored. He never ever heard mine!"

"He'll learn the better of that in time."

"At what cost?" Flora rounded on him. "Someone within these walls will die this day. We know this to be true. We know also, and far better than he, what danger lies beyond these walls. The very place he will happily send our children. Not even the grown men and women would he send in their place, hearing of our warnings. The children. The most innocent and helpless of all. Sent out to collect firewood as usual, with no knowing what fate may await them there."

"They know the tales," soothed Galeas, gathering her into his arms, "They are as safe as we can make them. And only one will be lost."

"There is no such thing as 'only' when a mother loses her child," Flora whispered, fear and anger shuddering through her voice.

From their usual perch on the wall, they watched the children leave on their daily expedition. Her shawl wrapped close around her, Flora counted them out, watching them until they disappeared up the shoreline. The day wore on and, try as he might, Galeas could not budge the steel-eyed woman from her watch-point. One by one the children returned, arms filled with varying sizes of driftwood bundles. She counted them in. By dusk only two remained unaccounted for, two boys, both in their tenth winter. Her eyes flicked between the lowering sun and the shore path, by which the children must return. Finally, with the last sliver of sunlight dissolving into the sea, the two boys ran up, arms full. They reached the gate in the curtain wall and hurried through, heading straight for the wood store, then on into the dun to be fed.

"All our little chicks have come home to roost safely," said Galeas, still unwaveringly by her side. "Perhaps we misread this morn's warning."

"Such warnings are never misread, only misinterpreted," she sighed, her voice still shaking, but this time with relief. "This day is not over, and death still waits for one of us."

Holding out his hand, and waiting patiently until she relented so far as to place her hand in it, Galeas helped Flora down the stairs and led her over to the dun, where the clan gathered for the evening meal. The warmth of the single room on the ground floor of the dun hit them with a palpable force as they entered. The smell of stewing mutton filled the room, almost overpowering the smell of the people crowding in there. Where the outside had been cold, dark, lifeless and quiet, in here there was noise, light, laughter and warmth. Flora eyed her charges silently and led Galeas to the stairs up to the chieftain's hall. The laughter echoed up the curving stone stairwell, and as they reached the curtained doorway to the hall, Flora felt it take on a mocking tone. She pushed back the curtain and entered. William MacLeod, fifth chief of the clan MacLeod, sat in his high-backed chair, presiding over an argument. While the children of the clan had been innocently gathering firewood, some of the adults had been finding other means of keeping warm, it seemed. A man Galeas recognised as one of the guards was accusing one he knew to be a carpenter of stealing away his betrothed. The woman in question was weeping pitifully in the midst of the feud.

"She has not yet said her vows to you," the MacLeod cut off the guard sharply. "She may be promised to you, but if memory serves, it was not herself that did the promising. Until she is wed, then, you have no claim to her heart, only her future."

"Her father promised me that she was..."

"What her father promised is neither here nor there anymore," interrupted William. "Will you wed her as she is or no?"

"She'll be mine as promised, and I'll wed her," answered the guard, "but I will not raise a cuckoo in my nest."

"That is easily attested to," sighed the MacLeod, waving a hand dismissively. "Anything else?"

"This man stole something from me. Something he cannot give back," replied the guard, fixing a dark gaze on the carpenter. "I would have him tried as a thief and punished as one."

"You, girl," barked the chieftain, pointing to the snivelling young woman in the middle of the room. She looked up. "Did this man force himself up on you in any way. Speak freely and true now, or it will be the worse for you."

Looking from the chieftain to the carpenter he was pointing at, she shook her head and burst into a fresh torrent of tears.

William MacLeod turned back to the guard. "What your rival took was freely given. I see no theft here."

"You would see your clan become a place where a man's word means nothing," complained the guard, rising up on false dignity, "and honour and virtue are but pale shadows of their true selves?"

"I would see my clan become a place where women were not bartered as goats are," retorted the chieftain. "My clan. And you would do well to remember that, Murdo mac Tormod mac Iain. If my ways do not suit you, perhaps you should seek another chieftain more bloodthirsty than I to stand guard for. You can wait until the spring if you wish, or not."

"I'll not leave without my promised bride," snarled the guard.

"How much did you pay her father for her?" William snapped. "What goods were exchanged that you hold her to a promise she did not make and so obviously wants no part of?"

The guard glared murder at the chieftain and stalked out of the room pushing past Galeas and Flora.

"What debt does your father owe him?" William asked the girl, whose tears had turned from those of shame, to those of fear.

"I do not know, sir," she replied, her whole body shaking like a leaf.

"And did you agree to this match?" William persisted.

"I did not, sir," she shook her head.

"And how long has there been an understanding between yourself and your lover here?"

"The full turn of four moons, sir, and then some days over."

The MacLeod nodded and sat in silent thought a while. "No marriage can take place within my walls without my permission," he said at last. "I do not give my permission for the match between you and Murdo."

"Thank you, sir," breathed the tearful girl. "Thank you."

"What say you, Angus of Lewis," said William, turning his eyes upon the carpenter. "Will you wed this woman you have beguiled?"

"I will sir," nodded the carpenter. "If her father will allow it."

"The choice lies not with him," murmured William, looking back to the girl. "It lies with you now child. Two men in this dun wish to wed you. Which will you have? He who paid for you, or he who won you?"

Silently, the girl held out her hand to the carpenter. He took it with the tentativeness of one reaching out to a stray cat.

"Very well," nodded the MacLeod. "To this match I give my permission, and to no other. Send your father to me and I will settle this matter with him."

The young couple nodded and wound their way around the waiting Flora and Galeas. Flora waited until their footsteps had echoed into silence before stepping forward to stand before the chieftain.

"Well," he sighed. "Did all of our children return safely?"

"They did," Flora admitted, "but..."

"As I knew they would," William cut in. "Night has fallen. The day is over. No ill has befallen any here."

"The day is not over," Flora countered. "Not in this instance. To any warning such as this, the limits of the day last a full cycle from when the warning was given. We have until dawn tomorrow before this is truly over."

"Then I suggest setting a watch upon our friend Murdo," sighed William impatiently. "If any is like to take the life of another this night it is he. It may be as well to set a watch upon the girl and her lover also, for they would surely be his targets."

"Indeed, but..." Flora stopped, her unusual agreement with her relative cut off by an anguished cry, echoing desperately down the stairwell and rising to a dolorous wail.

The entire company of the chieftain's hall rushed to the stairs. Galeas, closest to the door, was first to reach the source of the mournful sound. A woman sat on the stairs halfway up to the next floor, a small child hanging limply in her embrace. A bloody gash across the child's forehead, matching a reddened patch of wall by the edge of the stairs, told a story of its own in gory detail. In the depth of her despair, it took Galeas a moment to realise that the woman who sat so sorrowfully before him was the chieftain's own wife, and the child in her arms was the two year old babe that Flora had so lovingly tucked a blanket around that very morning.


	30. Episode 6: Chapter 4

**Episode 6: Loneliness and Adventure, Chapter 4**

Winter turned into spring. Spring into summer. Summer into autumn. As the harvest festival rolled round once more, Galeas found himself stacking peat from the hillside for the first fires of winter. It was one of many small jobs he had acquired within the dun. More and more, William MacLeod, still grieving the sudden death of his youngest son, called on him to advise on clan matters. More and more, the children of the dun would gather round him and listen to his tales of far off lands and mighty monsters. More and more, he would spend the quiet hours of each morning and evening walking along the curtain wall with Flora by his side, watching for lights on the water, and unpicking the pain of years gone by.

"One day more," murmured Flora taking his arm as he turned from the safely stowed fuel store. "One day more and then you are free."

"One day more and the queen's protection wears off," he corrected her. "It's not quite the same."

"The powrie started on your trail long before the queen gave her protection," Flora reminded him. "Its time is spent. It will be long gone by the time you leave."

"That wasn't what I was referring to," he said quietly.

Flora paused and looked round. There was something in his voice that made her wonder. But no. Such things were for the young. They were both far too old to start thinking in such a way.

"You don't have to be alone any more," murmured Galeas quietly. "The work I do, it can be done just as easily from here. Or you could come with me. I have wandered this land, and so many others, for centuries alone. A knight errant on an unending quest. I would welcome the chance to have a companion by my side. Especially one who knows my world so well."

"Especially one your 'quests' would find difficult to kill, you mean," murmured Flora in return. "I cannot leave here, Galeas. I did once, when first I was wed. I left my home for my husband's and remained there until after his death. In that time, disaster after disaster befell my clan. I returned, a widow for the first time and not yet a quarter of the age I am now, and I helped them rebuild from the ruins. I was wed again, and again I left to bide beside my second husband. It was many years more before I returned, widowed once again. Yet within that time even greater ill luck had cursed the land of my birth. They were besieged on all sides by beings and monsters they knew naught of. I alone held the knowledge and power to see those creatures for what they were, and to face them down and defeat them. I alone stood between my people and the ruin of their lives. I have remained with them ever since, guarding my clan and its history, and its treasures. I cannot leave them."

"And I cannot stay," he replied. "At least not permanently. But I can return. Say the word and I will make this place my home too. I must return now to the home of my studies, and the haven of all those relics I have helped collect through the years. But you have seen what magic can do. You have spoken to the Scholar, the guardian of those relics, through the mirror with me. You know that magic can do wonderful things. I believe that I, when I am once again within those walls, can use that magic to build a portal. A link between there and here. Once the queen's protection fades, it should be possible to join the two, the same way the fae themselves build a bridge between their world and ours. With such a link in place, it would be as simple as opening a door and stepping through from there to here. Whenever I return from a mission, I would report to the Scholar and deliver my bounty, then return home here, to you. And if I was needed, the mirror I showed you would always be able to find me. There is another, far more powerful, mirror in the possession of the Scholar, should he need to call me back to him. It could work, Flora."

She looked up at the light of hope in his eyes. They had both lived so long. He far longer than she. And yet, in those eyes, she saw the young man he once had been, and within her breast the heart of the young woman she had left behind so long ago sang with a hope, and a joy, she had not thought to feel again.

"It could work," she nodded. "Yes, it could work."

XXXX

It took Galeas some months to make his way south through the highlands and lowlands of the North to the rolling hills of Oxford. He picked his way carefully into the University Church of St Mary the Virgin, climbing the steps up to the small collection of chained books held above the north side of the church. The books sat silently in their aged oak shelves, brought entire from their previous abode in the house of the now late Bishop of Worcester, Thomas Cobham. Slightly newer shelves had been added throughout the three score and ten years the small university library had been there, growing slowly, like the oak trees whose timber now framed the treasured contents. Galeas walked up to the oldest set of shelves. A series of diamond shaped boxes, spanning the breadth of the bookcase at the eye level of an average man of the time, or the chest height of the knight, supported scrolls. Galeas reached out into one of the boxes, the third from the right, and passed his hand between the scrolls. There was a click, the grinding sound of a complex mechanism, and the bookcase swung towards him. A black, empty hole opened up behind it. Lifting a lantern from its hook above the reading desk, and lighting it, he stepped into the darkness. There was a click and the bookcase swung shut behind him. The chains shivered from the movement, and were still.

How far down exactly the stairs went, Galeas could not be sure. He was aware of the change in temperature that usually accompanies any descent below ground level, but he was also aware that the change occurred far faster than it ought. Teething problems, he thought, casting his mind back to the last time the Library anchor had been moved. That had been a much farther move, from the south of Spain, where he had first taken up the quest offered him, to Canterbury, where the charismatic Augustine had begun the building of his abbey. Gradually, over the centuries that had followed, it had become difficult to hide the true extent of the Library from the monks and pilgrims. It had become even more difficult to explain why the quiet, staid place of worship was irregularly interrupted by comings, goings and occasionally outlandish antics of individuals associated neither with laity or clergy. The decision had been made, finally, to move the anchor to the elder of the two great centres of learning in the land. When Bishop Cobham had left the establishment richer by the sum of three great oaken bookcases full of ancient manuscripts and scrolls, and a small reading room was established in the University Church, the Scholar had taken it as a sign and moved the Library there. A university was a centre of knowledge. A university library was a repository of such knowledge. What more eligible place could there be.

"Welcome home, Galeas," said a quiet, elderly voice. Light bloomed, and all around him, stretching out in all four directions, Galeas saw the familiar shelves of the Library. A timeworn old man stood straight and tall in front of him, or as tall as his diminutive height would allow. The wrinkles around his eyes creased as he smiled before speaking again. "Welcome back, then," he corrected himself. "I get the feeling you have a favour to ask."

XXXX

The first year went well. None at the dun questioned the sudden appearance and disappearance of the man they had grown used to seeing on a daily basis. Flora remained by the chieftain's side, advising where she could. Where she could not, or when she felt out of her depth, which was not often, she used the mirror Galeas had given her to call to him and ask his aid. If he could, he would postpone his mission and come to her through the portal they had, with the Scholar's help, constructed. If he did not have a mission, she did not have to use a magical mirror to call to him, he was already there.

The second year, in the spring, he sped to her side to help fend off an attack by nucklelavees, those sea dwelling faeries that are the most terrifying and belligerent of all. Five of the clan were lost in the attacks. Three of them were fighting men, who had taken it upon themselves to venture outside the curtain wall to attack the beasts. The other two were the first innocent victims of the creatures' bloodlust, taken on consecutive days as they scoured the beach for driftwood. The tales of those great, foul-smelling, flayed water horses, with grasping, clawed hands and fearsome faerie faces, spread like winter frost throughout the clan. Children were kept indoors. Wives begged their husbands to stay within the confines of the dun. And Flora used her mirror to call for Galeas' help.

Six months later, he helped her clear out an infestation of boggarts. A month after that, he returned to stay a while, keeping watch on the dun and its occupants through the darkest time of the year, and bringing with him a supply of firewood and food to make the cold, dark days easier for all. In all that time since his year long stay at the dun, he had spent every spare moment there, by her side. If he was not there, and she called him, he came. His visits, fleeting or lengthy, became a thing of normality in the clan, and accepted by its people. More importantly, it was now expected that, should Galeas be home at the time, for Dun Bheagain was now considered his home, he would be called on to advise the chieftain in any matter that gave him pause. Thus it was that Galeas found himself celebrating the turn of another year in the frozen north of Scotland, with a winter storm brewing and the icy blast of a sea wind blowing in across the top of the curtain wall.

And thus it was that he found himself standing atop that wall, the wind tangling his shoulder length snow white locks, with Flora by his side.

"I remember my first new year's morn here," he remarked softly, his voice almost lost in the wind.

"It was a colder one than this," nodded Flora.

"I recall reminding myself that it would most likely be the only such time I spent in the company of the MacLeod clan," he continued, "and that, cold or not, I should endeavour to enjoy myself and join in the festivities with a light heart."

"You certainly seemed to do so," mused Flora, a wistful smile playing across her mouth at the memory. "You drunk half the clan under the table and still seemed sober."

"A side effect of my condition," he shrugged. "Ale has almost no effect upon my constitution. It takes a considerably stronger beverage to even begin to make me drunk."

"Ah, so you cheated," Flora decided, her lip curling into a mischievous smile.

"I made the most of my natural talents," Galeas corrected her with dignity. "I did not think I would have the opportunity to do so again."

"And now?" Flora's smile froze in uncertainty.

"Now," he replied, turning to face her and turning her to face him. "Now, I cannot imagine ever being anywhere else, not unless it is with you by my side. I spoke to the Scholar before I left. He agreed with me that they have recruits enough at present, and I can afford to step down. Retire, if you will, to here. The Scholar feels that Dun Bheagain would benefit from my long years of experience and the knowledge I have gathered throughout them. He gave me leave to remain. Indefinitely."

"You are staying?" Flora breathed. "Permanently?"

"At least until he has no option but to call me in," he nodded, "and we have enough allies that such an event is unlikely to happen for years, perhaps centuries."

"I am glad of it," she smiled warmly, taking his hand and covering it with her own.

He covered their clasped hands with his other and held her gaze in the growing light of dawn. "Glad enough to be my wife?"


	31. Episode 6: Chapter 5

**Episode 6: Loneliness and Adventure, Chapter 5**

Time is said to travel in diverse paces with diverse persons. Perhaps there are none so diverse as those who have lived through many lifetimes. Time, to the timeless, is a lazy stream winding through a forgotten forest. Now it bubbles frantically over rocks and pebbles; now it piles up against a fallen log; now it runs narrow and deep, its true speed hidden by overgrowing bushes and reeds; now it spreads slowly out into the meander, idling in its unending journey.

So too did time travel at Dun Bheagain. Time and again, the ancient Norse fort was attacked by forces older still than its foundations. Time and again, those forces were beaten back by the crone of the clan and her husband. There was no hiding the truth of Flora MacLeod's prolonged life now, nor that of her husband, and the clan at least had the knowledge of its source. It was somewhere in the first few years of this marriage that the title of crone gradually changed to Cailleach: a name that translates simply into 'old woman', but has deeper roots in the history and lore of the faerie folk. Galeas likewise earned a title, and was known to young and old alike as Bodach: 'old man'. His stories filled the hearts of their hearers with both fascination and fear, for within them all lay a warning that all now paid far more heed to than in times gone by. Those children who had sat by the old man's knee in their younger years grew up, both wary and aware of the magical beings surrounding them. They married and had children of their own, sending them to the Bodach to hear the stories that had educated their own youth.

Time rolled by for Flora and Galeas. In the space of a generation, the stone walls of the dun grew and were strengthened. They were given their own set of rooms, high up in the dun, in a new tall tower added for the purpose. Galeas divided his time between his duties as a clansman, occasional long or short journeys for the Scholar, when absolutely necessary, and compiling a great archive in those tower rooms. The treasures of the clan were sent there, to be guarded over by the Cailleach and her husband. Great manuscripts, telling tales far older than either guardian, found their way to the tower rooms. Other items began appearing through the decades too. Some were relics of Galeas' adventures, old and new. Others were gifts sent by the Scholar, and appearing as if by magic in the rooms. An iridescent blue glass perfume bottle. A bloodstained and battle-worn olifant: an ivory hunting horn intricately carved at its widest end and bound in rings of worked silver. An exquisitely wrought gold arm ring, its interlocking projections weaving their way around its circumference. A small silver gilt cauldron with the embossed faces of Celts around the side. Numerous scrolls and maps. A supply of inks, parchment, thread and glue, with a raised copyist's lectern at which the Bodach often spent the lighter hours of the day, chronicling the Hebridean legends recounted to him by his wife. By the end of twenty years, a row of volumes, bound in leather, sat proudly on the wooden shelf beside the lectern. They had filled the shelf slower of late, as Galeas had spent much of the past year hunting a basilisk in Germany, but fill it they had. Each leather covered spine held an embossed and gilded title pronouncing the origin of the histories within. Tales of the Celts, the Norse, the Scots, Picts and Gaels, the Romans, the Angles, Saxons and Normans the Greeks, the Egyptians, and spreading out through all of Europe in between. Any casual browser of the volumes would find enough there to interest them for many days, perhaps weeks, months or even years. They would not find a complete volume, however. At the end of every manuscript there was a quire of blank pages, ready and waiting should new information become available.

"No story is ever truly over," Galeas explained when his wife questioned him on the blank pages at the end of each volume. "It echoes through the ages, resonating with all those touched by it. Perhaps they are a part of it themselves. Perhaps they simply hear the tale. Either way, somehow, within them, that tale lives on and gains new life, leading off in a new direction, or turning back on itself to begin all over again. Stories are important. They make us human. _Teach us_ how to be human, and what that means. They teach us to fear, yes, but they also teach us bravery. Weakness, but also strength. They teach us how to succeed, but also how to fail, and how not to let that failure overcome you. They teach us how to feel, and how to live, and sometimes even how to die. I have watched many people die in my lifetime. Most of them are even now remembered by more than just myself. For each one of them, to them, their story seemed ended. To me, who continued without them, they were all part of one greater story, which simply began another chapter."

"And when your story is finally ended?" Flora asked, running her fingers through his snow white hair. "What will theirs be then?"

"Then," he said, "like mine, their tales will become a part of someone else's story. Someone who has been a part of my life, and carries the memory of me with them."

That spring, work began again on extending the dun. Iain MacLeod, the sixth chieftain of the clan, had put forward a grand plan of work. He had been a scant seventeen summers when his father had died, far off in Castle Camus, and had been buried on the holy isle of Iona. In the restlessness of youth, he had travelled the mainland and the inner isles, sailing up even to his kin at Lewis. He had brought back tales of his own, and ideas of many others. Ideas that had led to charcoal scratched designs of tall tower houses, some attached to the old dun, some replacing it. Finally one such scrawl had been selected and, over the years, a new wing had extended out from the wall of the dun. The hollow where the great harvest feasts had been held had been built over. The foundations had been laid. Building materials were sparse in the isolated north of the island, but by quarrying their own stone and felling their own timber, the clan had begin a work of great magnitude. A work that would take a generation or more to complete.

Now, with their chieftain approaching his thirty second year, the tower house stood, two storeys high and held up on the strength of vaulted stone rooms on the ground floor. Those rooms were already in use, inhabited by the growing clan when the weather grew cold, with people in one set of rooms and livestock in the others. In warmer days, the cold, dark stone rooms served to keep the fish, meat and vegetables of the clan fresh and edible longer. The work the masons, smiths and carpenters were beginning this year was on the roof of that second floor, and all spare men, women and children had been sent out in search of great trees to form the main supports of the roof. These would have to be built into the walls as they rose, so work had ceased on everything but the quarrying of stone and the finding of the trees.

When the geese were flying north overhead, and Galeas was making his round of the walls, taking his turn on watch like any other clansman, a curious incident occurred. He had seen the men from far off, hauling a newly felled tree in the direction of the dun. Their progress had been slow and halting, as if the burden they bore were a much heavier one than its appearance would suggest. Passing a signal to another of the men on watch, Galeas dropped down from the curtain wall and hurried to the hut where he knew his wife would be, aiding a young mother at the fullness of her time.

"Flora," the old man called, stopping deferentially at the door of the hut before entering. The door opened halfway and his wife's face peered out at him, the silent question written in her features. "You must come. Now."

The door closed. Behind it, Galeas could hear hurried words explaining, cajoling, consoling. He could also hear another voice, high and fretful, pleading tearfully. The unwavering, calming voice of his wife, both fierce and gentle all at once, sounded again, then stopped with decision. Moments later the door opened again and his wife stepped out, her shawl around her shoulders.

"What have you?" Flora enquired briskly, falling into step beside him as he returned to the curtain wall. "Kelpies, Blue Men, boggarts, pixies?"

"No army this time," Galeas shook his head. "In fact, I can't see what's causing it. But maybe you can?"

"Faerie magic?" Flora looked up at him sharply, pausing on the now stone steps up to the wall. "Cast against here?"

"Maybe," he murmured, holding out his hand to help her up the last step onto the walkway. "I hope I'm mistaken."

Flora shot him another curious glance then hurried round the wall after him to the point facing inland, along the line of the hill. He pointed to the struggling team of men and their burden. She followed the line of sight indicated, a slight intake of breath the only sign of worry a passing guard might have spotted. To Galeas, though, who knew every line of her face so well now, a deathly fear seemed to have gripped his wife. He dropped his arm and slipped his hand in hers.

"Where did they find one?" Flora murmured. "I have not seen such a tree in these lands since I was a girl."

"Then I was right?" Galeas asked, his brow clouding. "It is an elder tree?"

"They cannot bring it in here," replied Flora, ignoring his question. "Those trees are protected. They will bring the wrath of the Hyldermoder upon us all."

"They will suffer her wrath alone if we leave them out there with it," her husband pointed out. "If I bring them within the wall, without the tree, can you hold the defences against her?"

"If I am on my land and she has not been brought into it already," Flora nodded.

Galeas nodded once, kissed his wife's hand, and left her side. Moments later, Flora saw him riding out on one of the clan's great draught horses. It was no swift shoed messenger carrier, but it brought him to the struggling men in the space of a few minutes. Very little discourse was needed to convince the men to fly their charge and leave it for Galeas to deal with, as he and Flora had dealt with all other matters of such ilk in the past. Flora watched the small group, dwarfed by the great size of both her husband and his horse, hurrying back to the gate in the curtain wall. A flicker of green caught her eye and she turned back to the fallen elder tree.

"Who are you, who dares uproot my home?" The Hyldermoder asked, green light blazing from her eyes. "Who kills one of my beloved trees, beautiful and helpless against the ravages of thieving humans?"

"The humans felled only what they needed to build their own home," responded Galeas, looking up at the swaying, green clad fae. "They knew nothing of the protection you afforded all elder trees."

The green fae's eyes focussed on the source of the voice, looking down at the erstwhile knight on his horse. "Why, it is Galeas, is it not? I had not heard tell that you were come to this isle again. But then, the last of my elders died out here long ago. These humans you are so fond of, who have butchered and stolen this treasure of mine, they may not know the importance of the old ways, but you do. You, who are older than the very hill their tiny settlement is built on. How comes it that you let these new pets of yours run free and hunt down my poor trees? You cannot be their prisoner, for you stand alone here before me. You cannot be their leader or such an error would surely never have happened. You must then be their guest. But why? The Scholar cannot need anything from within those walls. They are already protected by faerie magic. Whatever treasures lie within are as safe as if they were resting with the Scholar himself."

"They are my people now," Galeas replied, keeping his voice low and calm. "I am one of them. A part of their clan. And I am here to ensure no harm befalls them for their error."

"Poor Galeas," smiled the Hyldermoder, but the smile did not reach her eyes. "Always so lost. Always missing something. Always looking for a home. A family. Do you think you have found one here? For how long?"

"For as long as they will allow me to remain," shot back the knight. "And I believe that term may go on indefinitely."

"Forever?" The Hyldermoder's eyes blinked. Sideways. "Poor Galeas. Do you not remember the questions, accusations and unpleasantness that occurred the last time you tried to settle down? I do. You were almost burned once, tied to the trunk of one of my trees. I watched you escape then. My tree was not so lucky. These people will tire of your novelty. They will grow wary of your unchanging years and turn fearsome of your sword and your knowledge. Then what will they tie you to? This tree? Another? Must I endure another fiery death all because you are so desirous of acceptance?"

"Here is different," he retorted. "Here, magic is a reality for the people. They fear it, and the creatures bound by it, but not me. Not Flora."

"Flora? A woman?" The Hyldermoder frowned, glancing up at the wall again, then back to Galeas. "The woman on the wall? The one with fae blood? What is she to you? A pupil?"

Galeas cursed himself for being drawn on Flora's name and identity. He could not lie to the Hyldermoder, she would know as soon as any untruth passed his lips. There was no help for it: he would have to answer her. "My wife."

As soon as he said it, he saw the green clad woman's eyes shine with an vengeful light.

"So you have given up your work for the Scholar to play house with a fae," she sing-songed triumphantly. "How the choice must have burned within you. Almost like the fire that burned my tree. But perhaps the ties have not been fully cut yet. Are you still a vassal of the Library, Galeas? Do you still run swiftly to your Scholar when he calls? Surely each time you do, the burden gets heavier? Does your duty call you to stand here, by your wife? Or does it demand your attention whenever the Scholar needs you? Does it tear you in two? Uproot you, as your pet humans uprooted my tree? Allow me to simplify matters for you. To expedite a clear choice. My tree is dead now. It is of no use to me. Your humans can use it in their home if they wish. The blame for its death, however, I lay at your door. Compounded with the burning of another of my trees so long ago, this leaves me no option but to place a curse upon your head. I cannot enter the home of your faerie wife as long as she remains there, nor, by the laws of my people, can I justify doing her harm. But know this: should you enter her domain just once more in your lengthy years, you will never again find yourself able to leave the place. Not until the blood in her veins ceases to flow, and her magic has gone out of this world. Should she ever leave her home to follow you, I will tear every rock, every pebble down to dust, and I shall not worry over the blood of inconsequential mortals who know no better than to tear down my trees. Choose now, sir knight: where lies your greatest duty? With the institution you swore to serve? Or with the woman you swore to love?"


	32. Episode 6: Chapter 6

**Episode 6: Loneliness and Adventure, Chapter 6**

Jenkins reeled back from the mirror as if he had been punched. Turning on his heel, he made for the office, yelling at the top of his voice for the others. They clattered into the room as the perfect knight, with shaking hands, attempted for the third time to set the globe.

Ezekiel was the first by his side. With the lithe fingers that he had found so useful in his previous profession, he took the small pebble from his mentor's hands and set the globe himself. Behind him, he heard the Colonel's swift stride march up and pull the knight away from his pupil.

"Jenkins, what's wrong?" Eve demanded, one hand still fixed on each of his arms, pinioning him in place. "Where are we going? What's the emergency?"

"She's... They're... Dunvegan is under attack," he stammered out, eyes wide. "Seonaidh used the mirror. Asked for our help. Asked me to help."

"Then we'll help," said Eve, gently but firmly. "Jones has got the door ready. I've got my gun. I don't think I've ever managed to count how many weapons you've got lying around in here. We all grab something, something sensible, and we go see how the land lies, right?"

Jenkins nodded mutely, still shaking.

"Go pick up your sword and shield, soldier," she commanded. "We have a castle to reinforce."

Without a word, the knight turned to his own desk, behind which none but the errant Jones dared venture. He emerged with a sword and scabbard and was buckling it into place just as Flynn returned doing the same. Stone was fixing a diamond and sapphire necklace into place around Cassandra's neck, the scabbard-less rapier from the umbrella stand tucked under his arm. Charlene was checking a gun of her own, while a long knife hung from her belt.

"What can I take?" Ezekiel interjected. "I'm fairly sure I can shoot a gun. It's just point and squeeze, right? Or a sword? Pointy end goes into other guy, right?"

"Ezekiel, stay here," Eve ordered. "Man the door with da Vinci. Make sure nothing comes through that isn't us."

"No! Hell no! This is _MY_ girlfriend we're going to rescue here! I'm not just going to sit back and let everyone else do all the work!"

"And that's precisely why you're not going," cut in Eve. "You're way to close to this. Add to that the facts that you can't fight, you do _not_ know how to shoot a gun, _or_ how to use a sword, and you have no control over or protection from magic, and I think it's fairly clear your presence would only make our jobs harder. We can't leave the door unprotected, either. We need our best fighters in the field and someone smart back here to stop any unwanted guests."

"That pebble brings you out in the gardens," the young thief pointed out. "What if you need someone sneaky to break in?"

"We'll call you if we need you," said the Colonel, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I promise."

Da Vinci enclosed the young man's arm in a vicelike grip and dragged him backwards. As Ezekiel's eyes met Jenkins', a memory of a conversation passed through his mind. He opened his mouth to speak, but caught a pale shake of the head from his mentor.

"Keep them safe," he said, watching his friends disappear two by two into the line of fire. Jenkins nodded silently, his lips drawn into a tight thin line and his jaw set, then followed Charlene and the others through the door.

The wormhole brought them out in the lower part of the gardens, outside the curtain wall. For a moment, Jenkins was disorientated, looking around himself in confusion. So much had changed. But then, nearly six centuries does that to a place. Cassandra, the first through the portal with Stone, had started leading the way up to the gates before he had finally reconciled his memories of the place with the ground he stood on there and then. He followed them, his eyes darting watchfully to right and left, his ears straining for any sound of battle.

Charlene manoeuvred herself to his side. "I thought in the legends you had a shield?"

"One that no man can wield but I," he murmured back.

"Would it not be useful at a time like this?"

"Probably," Jenkins agreed, "but for some idiotic reason, possibly linked to my ability to survive just about anything anyway, I left it with my wife as a promise that I would return. One day."

"Do they know?" Charlene pressed, halting as the two reached the castle gates.

"The boy knows some, but not all," he replied, pausing by her side. "The rest know nothing, but I think Miss Cillian and Mr Carsen suspect something."

"Does he know you might not come back from this?" Charlene frowned.

Jenkins shook his head. "Truthfully, I am praying that this is one adventure I do not return from. I'm sure you can explain matters to him if that is the case."

"It won't just be him who needs explanations," drawled the retired secretary, patting him on the arm and walking over the threshold.

Jenkins stood for a moment, looking up at the stones he had once called home. Then, for the first time in five hundred and ninety three years, Galeas entered the walls of Dunvegan.

XXXX

Ezekiel shook off da Vinci's steadying arm as the door swung shut. His mind was turning cartwheels, playing out various scenarios. In some he used one of his other tokens to link the door into the interior of the castle. In others he waited patiently for the serpent brotherhood to attack the portal that was already up and running. Sometimes they did, sometimes they didn't. Sometimes he broke into the castle in time to save the day and the princess, his princess. Sometimes he didn't. Sometimes he arrived just in time to watch the strange shadowy figure of the grey man, who had attacked them at Threave, slice open his beloved Seonaidh's throat. Sometimes he arrived at exactly the wrong place and the wrong time, and imagined himself lying, bleeding out on the carpet, while Jenkins, Flynn and the others fought to get to him instead of to her. Fire shot through his hand, and he swore at the sudden physical pain. Looking round, he saw the he had punched the solid wall of one of the pillars supporting the mezzanine.

" _Ogni uomo è un idiota in amore_ ," muttered da Vinci. "Go: put ice on that and bind it. I will guard the door."

"Less than half an hour ago you thought you were running errands for an Elizabethan spymaster," Ezekiel pointed out. "I think I'll pass."

"Really?" Da Vinci countered. "I thought your ability to use your hands was important to you? Or do you intend to face our enemies both injured and ignorant?"

"Hey!" Ezekiel frowned.

" _Andare_!" Da Vinci cried, shooing the boy out of the room. "And do not think of coming back without _la fasciatura_ on that and something to cool it."

"At least they left us both swords," the young man grumbled, heading for the door.

Da Vinci picked up the swords from the table, where he had placed them. "No, they did not. Find your own weapon. These are both mine."

XXXX

The castle seemed quiet as the Librarians and company approached the front door.

"Cassandra, you know the place best," whispered Eve. "You take point. Can you hold one of those magic shields and scan for other magic at the same time?"

"I think so," replied the redhead. "Especially here. There's a lot of background magic though. It's everywhere, even out here."

"The curtain wall has been the boundary of the castle to faerie magic, both of friend and foe, since the fourteenth century," murmured Galeas.

"So what does that mean for your powers?" Eve frowned. "They'll be amplified I guess, but are we talking the difference between a gun and a grenade, here, or between a gun and a nuke?"

"Hard to tell," shrugged Cassandra. "Somewhere in between, probably. I was already used to the background magic of Dunvegan itself, but there's something else here. Something more."

"We'll just have to take our chances," winced the Colonel. "I know I don't need to say it, Cassandra, but control it as best you can, okay. If things start getting foggy or you feel dizzy at all, fall back and let us handle it from there. Stone, stay close to her."

"Always," murmured the cowboy.

"Charlene, Jenkins, you take the left," the Colonel ordered. "Flynn and I will take the right. Guns to the front. Swords to the rear. If Cassandra's force field holds, the only place anyone is likely to get close enough for a sword is at the back of the group."

"Will our bullets get through this shield of yours, Cassandra?" Charlene asked, catching the redhead's eye.

"They should do," she nodded. "I use my mind as the focus, the artefact as the power source, so whatever kind of force field I focus on, one way or neither, that's what we'll get."

"Make sure it's one way!" Eve and Charlene said together.

The six comrades lined up behind Cassandra in the formation Eve had planned. An indigo shimmer tinged the air before her and, as Cassandra raised a hand, the castle doors swung open.

Dust shimmered in the air of the castle interior, creating glittering beams where the fading sunlight edged through the windows. Nothing else moved. Not a breath of air disturbed the glimmering patterns. Slowly the magical shield passed through the beams, its passage invisible to all but Cassandra. The group held their pattern as they cleared the hall and ground floor rooms. When they reached the stairs, Cassandra stopped.

"Up or down?" Eve asked Charlene, from Cassandra's questioning glance. "You know this place better than I do. Which way would the family retreat?"

"Down," cut in Galeas. "That's the oldest part of the castle down there, if it's still there. That's where her library will be. She'll want to protect it."

"But the Fairy Flag is upstairs," frowned Eve.

"You're adorable," drawled Charlene.

"Fairy Flag upstairs is a fake," sighed Eve, rolling her eyes. "Duly noted. Cassandra, lead the way downstairs."

"The archives are down here," agreed the synaesthete with a shy smile. "Charlene, Jacob and I have all spent time there."

"Then why...?" Eve looked confused.

"The tower I woke up in, that first time," replied Cassandra, making her way down the stairs. "That's what's upstairs. It's called the Fairy Tower. Flora used it to recharge my magical batteries, so to speak."

"The castle recharged you," Galeas pointed out, bringing up the rear. "The tower just stopped the artefacts here supercharging you. It kept you as far away from them as possible, until you were back on your feet of course. The magic here is so old it has seeped into the very stones they used to build on it."

"On it?" Flynn mouthed to Stone, who shrugged and nodded.

Cassandra turned a corner and held up a hand. The team froze, silent and still. Eve and Charlene craned forward to see. Before them was a corridor, stone walled and slab floored. Spread out along it were four suits of mediaeval armour, each standing to attention as if they were nothing more than an incongruous display in the servants halls.

"Think they're like the ones from your parents'?" Charlene asked in a hoarse whisper.

Cassandra nodded. "They weren't down here before."

"Where are the archives?" Eve enquired, ninety percent sure she already knew the answer.

"See that spiral staircase at the other end of the corridor," whispered Cassandra. "The floor below them."

"Of course they are," murmured Eve.

"I say we just walk straight through and see what happens," shrugged Charlene. "Worst comes to worst, they bounce of Sabrina's magic bubble for a bit."

"It's a shield, not a bubble," hissed Cassandra. "I can't control it all the way round us yet, and I can't exactly hold it forever, either!"

"Moving forward is still our only option," said Eve. "Everyone stay close, and stay quiet. We don't want to set these guys off if we can help it."

"We don't know what sets them off either," pointed out Charlene.

Apparently, what set them off was more of a delayed reaction to magic. The magic evident in Cassandra's shield. With her synaesthetic vision switched on, Cassandra watched as first one, then two, then four lines sprouted from her shimmering blue invisible shield. Lines of an angry purplish pink, contrasting garishly with the dark indigo of the shield itself, shot outward to the four suits of armour. By the time they had latched on to the shield, however, the team was right in the centre of the corridor, with the four suits closing in on them from all four directions.

"Run!" Flynn yelled out, parrying the sword of one knight. "Get Cassandra past them and get behind her shield."

"I can't hold it," cried Cassandra, wiping blood from her nose. "They're draining it somehow."

"Flynn get back here!" Eve called, dragging Jenkins back behind the shield.

"If Cassandra can't hold the shield," her husband replied, "one of us at least has to keep these guys busy while you get to the archives."

"We have a better plan," she retorted, reaching out and yanking him out of the way of two descending swords. "Come here!"

With Flynn safely behind the wavering indigo wall, Eve turned him round and steered him towards Cassandra, where Jenkins and Charlene were waiting. Charlene inclined her head to the redhead's shoulder and Flynn spotted Jenkins' hand outstretched and waiting. The penny dropped. He did the same. Charlene held up three fingers, then two, then one.

The wave of magical energy didn't just knock their four attackers off their feet. It echoed down the hallway and reverberated through the walls, bouncing back and sending the group flying.

"That was a little, er, more than I expected," Cassandra coughed, shaking off the dust that had been swept up in the wave.

"My fault," groaned Galeas. "Linking to me looped in the castle too. At least the part we're in now."

"Are you okay?" Eve asked, her brow furrowed into a concerned frown. "You don't look too good. How do you feel?"

"My age," grumbled Galeas, reaching out to a nearby wall for support and hauling himself to his feet. "Ugh. I haven't felt this drained since eleven ninety."

"Crusades?" Flynn enquired, helping Charlene up. "Third one wasn't it?"

"For some," Galeas nodded, reaching for his fallen sword. "For me it was the start of two years of undercover work, trying to find out how some rich kid with a bow and arrow was able to get in and out of Nottingham castle undetected. I sincerely do not believe anyone ever sleeps well in a tree!"

Flynn looked surprised, then thoughtful, then his eyes brightened and he raised a hand. Jenkins threw him a look. Flynn raised both hand in surrender. "Now is not the time. I get it."

Their hollow opponents lay in inert and scattered pieces at the far end of the corridor when the team spread out into a long line to file down the spiral staircase. Cassandra, looking tired, but still determined, led the way. Stone followed her, with Eve behind him. Flynn and Charlene brought up the rear.

"You sure you're okay," Jacob whispered into Cassie's ear. "These staircases are designed to make attack difficult. We could do without the shield for a bit, you know."

"I'm fine," she replied, but through gritted teeth. "I'm almost entirely using the castle's own magic now."

"Yeah, but Cassie, you're a conduit here. A conductor. I've seen what happens when a wire has to carry an electrical current it can't handle. I don't want the magical equivalent to happen to you."

"We have to do this, Jacob. I'll be fine."

They reached the final floor. Time worn stones spread out before them into a curving corridor. Double doors presented themselves. Heavy doors, of carved oak and bronze. A tree spread its branches between the metalwork. It was a tree the Librarians all recognised.

Cassandra raised her hand to the door, but it remained stolidly secure. She shook her head. "I can't budge it. I don't think it's locked. That shouldn't even make a difference though."

Galeas reached out and motioned to her to lower her hand. He stepped up to the door. "Flora? It's us. Let us in."

The door swung inward at his touch. The room beyond looked like a tornado had swept through it. Books lay open, their pages slashed and torn. Scrolls lay crushed under fallen furniture. Tables were overturned. Chairs were missing legs. One was missing all its legs, with nothing but sliced through stumps to hold it up off the floor.

"Flora!" Galeas charged into the room, eyes darting from wall to wall.

"Over here," called a much younger voice than he was expecting. "We're over here."

Galeas led the group of rescuers round the corner of a cabinet. He froze. Just for a moment. Just long enough for the sword to fall from his hand. Before the hilt had met the stone floor, he was moving again. Racing forward. Seonaidh sat, huddled in a corner, her hands pressing down on a red stain on her ancestor's abdomen.

"I can't make it stop," sobbed the girl. "I've tried magic. I've tried everything I know. It won't stop."

"No! No, we were supposed to have time!" Galeas begged lifting Flora's cold, pale hand in his. Her eyes stirred. He pressed her hand to his lips. "You can heal. You always heal."

"Not this time, Galeas," breathed the Cailleach. "We knew this was coming, you and I."

"Not so soon," he shook his head. "Not like this."

"You would rather I wasted away slowly and in pain?" Flora asked him, her lips twitching up at the corners.

"I would rather we had time," he said, running his hand over her hair. "Time to say goodbye."

"We have that, at least," she sighed, making an effort to open her eyes and look up at him. "It's my own fault. I should have known better."

"What is? What happened?"

"Much," she murmured. "Much has happened and much is my fault. I do not know what enchantment they used, or how they got it in here, but once those shells of warriors found their way into the castle itself, every suit of armour rallied to their call. All of them. I should have seen it coming. I should have known. You never did wear a visor down in battle."

Galeas frowned. "Visor? My armour. My armour joined the enchanted ones?" He looked back down at her wound, and a new horror spread over his features. "My armour did this. My sword."

"I foolishly thought it was you," she smiled. "I let it pass. It wasn't until it already had the ring that I thought to question it. By then it was too late."

"The ring?" Galeas, frowned. "Not..."

"Aye, the cursed one," she tried to nod and coughed instead. She turned her head to Seonaidh. "Go now child. Take the others upstairs and tell them all that has passed here. I would spend this time alone with my husband."

With tearstained cheeks the girl kissed the woman she had always called grandmother and rose, picking her way around the dropped sword and leading the others from the room. She did not speak again until they reached the oddly untouched kitchen.

"Seonaidh, what happened?" Charlene asked, with a gentleness only Flynn had been privileged to see her use before.

"I don't know how they got in exactly," she sniffed, focussing on the menial task of setting the kettle to boil to make tea. "I do know they had help, though. My mother. I saw them, marching down the upper hallway. They walked right past her and she did nothing. No look of surprise. Not even confusion. I ran. Ran to Grandmother. I told her what I had seen. We tried to retreat to the archives, but the armour of our own house caught us. We had to fight our way through them. We ran again. All the way to the archives. They were right behind us. They got in. They were looking for something. Then, all of a sudden, they stopped. They looked round, like they heard something. Then they left. That was when another suit of armour stepped into the room. One I had not seen before. It bore a white shield with a red cross. My Grandmother knew it though. She let it by. She told me... She told me we were safe now. Then she noticed something. She tried to stop it..."

The girl's voice faltered and Cassandra wrapped a consoling arm around her shoulders, steering her to Charlene and a chair, then taking over tea making duty.

They were still sitting there, nursing cooling mugs of tea, when Galeas stepped heavily into the room. He looked older than they had ever seen him, his face haggard and drawn. Flynn stood up and offered the old man a chair. Galeas shook his head.

"You can go now," he murmured, not raising his head. "She is gone."

"I'll stay," offered Charlene quietly. "You'll need someone to help around the place."

Galeas shook his head. "This is a family matter. And Flora was my family, not yours. I am only glad the current chief and his wife were not here to witness this. Seonaidh and I, and the castle, will set this place to rights before they come home."

"There will be arrangements to make," pressed Charlene.

"Then I will make them," he said firmly, finally raising his eyes to meet hers.

Charlene felt the unwavering strength of that gaze and nodded, saying nothing. She knew, better than any other in the room, the pain and loss that lurked behind it, waiting to burst forth like water behind a dam. She rose, bending to offer Seonaidh her sympathies and promise her help if she needed it. Then shooed the others out of the room.

Galeas sat down by his newly acquired granddaughter.

"I don't think I can go back down there," she whispered.

He took both her hands in his. "You don't have to child. The castle is yours now. It answers to you. Anything you wish it to do, you need only focus your mind upon it. Soon, you will start to feel it, sense its presence in your mind. We cannot wait for that to happen though. I need you to use that power now to put everything back as it ought to be. Your chief will be home tomorrow and we passed more than a little disturbance on the way to you. Work your way upward from here. Fix things as you see them. It will be easier for now. The archives you can leave to me. I will take care of them, and of my wife's body. When she lies peacefully in her bed, you can call the nearest physician. I can cast a glamour enough to hide her wounds. She will appear to have passed away in her sleep. We can begin the funeral arrangements after that."

For a moment, the girl stared blankly at the ancient wooden table before her. Then the new Cailleach nodded her head.


	33. Episode 7: Chapter 1

**Episode 7: The Worst Version of Himself, Chapter 1**

"You have to go."

"Just tell me exactly what you saw."

"Quickly: he's coming!"

"Not until you tell me what you're hiding!"

"There is nothing more, I swear!"

"There must be something!"

"I can hear his footsteps. You have to go!"

"I _will_ come back."

"It would be better if you did not. For everyone."

"I don't accept that."

"I know. But you must. And you must go. Now!"

The whispered voices faded into silence, culminating in a sharp blue flash. Alone, she crept out of the ancient antechamber, picking a worn leather-bound volume up just as the owner of the footsteps rounded the open door of the room.

"Grandfather," said Seonaidh, with a slight inclination of her head.

"How go your studies?" Galeas asked tersely, his eyes flitting about the tower room.

"Your handwriting is difficult to decipher," replied the young woman, the ice in her voice easily apparent.

"I cannot catalogue the myriad possible sightings of our enemies and spoon feed you your own family's history," he snapped. "Perhaps you might find it easier to concentrate on these ledgers without distractions."

"I have been stuck in this room for days," retorted Seonaidh. "There are no distractions here."

"Do not lie to me, girl," barked the old man. He crossed the room in a few swift strides and pushed aside the curtain of the antechamber, returning with a small heart shaped corn dolly. "You forget: I know this place. I built this room, centuries ago, long before this modern contrivance was erected over and around it. Long before your grandmother persuaded the architect to move this floor of the tower, stone by stone, to the level it now occupies. I know how I linked it to the Library, in its Oxford days. And I know that the thief has found the relics of that time in my laboratory. Do not attempt to tell me he is not using them. My writing may be difficult to decipher after six centuries, but that does not explain why you would be reading a chapter you yourself explained to me just this morning."

Seonaidh shut the book. It landed on the wooden desk with a dull thunk, sending ripples through the glass and jug of water nearby. "He merely wants to know what I am not telling him," she sighed, folding her arms and turning to face the old man, her chin jutting forward stubbornly.

"He knows all he needs to," replied Galeas, with a dismissive wave. "You do not."

"But I do now have plenty of time to learn," she sniped back.

"You do not _know_ how much time you have!" Galeas retorted, his voice rising. "The forces that attacked this castle are far stronger than you, and they are bent on destroying this world. If you do not do this... If you are not ready for them the next time we meet... None of us may survive what is coming. Not you. Not me. Not even the thief. If you want to stand a chance of saving him, you must be ready."

"If my grandmother could not fight these demons with all of this knowledge already a part of her," shot back Seonaidh, "what chance do you expect me to have?"

Galeas' jaw tightened. His brow darkened. "Your grandmother made a mistake that I will not permit you to make," he replied, his voice sinking to a low growl. "She allowed her feelings to distract her, and that mistake cost more than you will _ever_ know. If you think you would stand little chance of winning such a battle with all her knowledge, try to imagine what chance you would stand without it."

XXXX

"Please tell me you actually have something," begged Cassandra, her head snapping up as Jones stumbled through the door.

"She still won't say," he shook his head. "He has her learning all this ancient lore stuff. Like journals he and Flora wrote way back. Other than that, either she doesn't know any more, or she's not telling. And she definitely knows more than she's saying."

"Jenkins wouldn't deliberately keep us out of this," Flynn yawned, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and sitting up from the pillow of books on his desk. "There must be something we're missing."

"Flynn," cut in Charlene, her unusually quiet tone demanding attention. "I get that you don't want to consider this possibility, but I think we have to. Jenkins just lost the most important person in his life. Someone he had been planning on returning to for six hundred years, near enough. Someone he knew he would only have limited time with when he did, but whom he thought he'd have the time to say goodbye to properly. They thought they'd have years once the next Cailleach showed up. Maybe decades. He could retire from the annex, move all his things there and spend her last years as any elderly retired couple, albeit one with a considerably larger back yard and fewer holidays. He thought she would have a slow, peaceful death, by his side. Not a sudden, painful one, by his blade. The Serpent Brotherhood didn't just steal those years from him, they used his own armour and sword to do it. I don't know what enchantment they're using, but it must be pretty powerful if it can possess the armour of the perfect knight, when the knight himself is still alive and kicking."

"It has to be the same spell used at my parents' house," shrugged Cassandra.

"Probably," nodded Charlene. "And Jenkins probably knows that. Definitely knows that, I'd say. We cannot discount the possibility that he is going after them himself. He knows he's the hardest out of all of us, bar possibly da Vinci, to kill. If he can get his armour, and his own sword and shield, back, he would be a force to be reckoned with. Especially if he's out for revenge."

"All the more reason to work out our newest riddle," cut in Eve, appearing at the mezzanine balustrade. "Stone has the translation."

The Runestone had changed two days ago, on da Vinci's watch. It had been moved into the reading room and was never left without at least one person on guard. It was the second such change since the catastrophe at Dunvegan. Whether the first change had coincided with Flora's death or not, none of the group could say as, in the panic and distraction cause by the attack and its immediate aftermath, nobody had been watching the stone. The message had been simple enough. It read 'The ship of the dead sails'. Flynn had spotted it while removing the last of the Serpent Brotherhood's artefact duplicates. From then on the team had decided it should never be left alone.

The group in the atrium of the office ascended the stairs and followed Eve into the reading room, where da Vinci and Stone were arguing over whatever was scribbled on a pad of paper beside the Runestone.

The carvings on the stone were different this time. The angular Futhark runes had been replaced by the even more angular scratches of something it had taken half a day just to identify. Both artistic genii and Flynn had been studying the message from the moment of its discovery, with only minimal breaks. The Library had even provided an extra sofa in the room for sleeping on. Finally a breakthrough had arrived. The writing on the stone was ancient Sumerian cuneiform pictograms, of the Uruk style, and the oldest form known. It went back over five thousand years, predating even the oldest Egyptian hieroglyphs. Right back to the very birth of the written language. That hadn't been the end of it either. There were few enough examples of early Sumerian, even with the Library's impossibly diverse resources. Not every Sumerian pictogram had an ordinary, understandable counterpart. Once the writing itself had been translated, as far as possible, into the modern Latin characters, the language of the resulting message still had to be deciphered from the original dialect into English. Finally, a day and a half later, it seemed the task was complete.

"Please tell me we know what this means now," sighed Flynn, slumping down into a sofa. "The language of the birds took less time to translate than this!"

"You had nothing else to do on the plane at the time," Charlene reminded him. "And you knew what you were trying to decipher."

Flynn returned a tight-lipped smile and remained silent, reaching up to take the hand Eve had quietly placed on his shoulder and kiss it.

"Tell us," said the Colonel. "What does it say this time?"

"It's a riddle," warned Stone, casting a glance around team gathered in the room. "There's still a few bits that are guesswork, but what we think it says is this."

"Where the bridge between realms first found a home," recited da Vinci, "the giants of the fire world will cross to ours."

"We think the 'fire world' is what the Norse called Muspell," Stone pointed out. "And the bridge between worlds..."

"Is the bifrost, the rainbow bridge," finished Jones. Stone gave him a weary look and the reformed thief shrugged. "I've seen 'Thor'. Marvel's awesome."

"This ain't a comic book movie Jones," grumbled the overworked art historian, trying to stifle a yawn. "If it was there'd be some clue as to where this bridge actually first touched down."

"I guess we could ask around," shrugged Cassandra, flashing a look over to Eve. "We do have a few contacts. You know, in New York?"

Eve pulled a face and nodded. "You know, I guess we do. Why don't you take Jones this time, though. Flynn and I have a contact of our own, out in Norway."

As tired as he was, Flynn sat up at this, his eyes widening. "We do indeed, my love. And I'm sure Hervor, like any good Valkyrie, would be an expert in travelling between this world and others."

"Hey, what about me?" Stone chipped in. "I did all the hard work here, me and Flynn and Leonardo, anyway. How come Jones gets to go!"

"You did do all the hard work," agreed Eve, "and now you're dead on your feet, Stone. Look at you: you're so tired you can barely stand. I need that brain of yours in good working order if we're going to win this one. Cassandra and Jones can handle New York. Flynn and I can take care of Norway. You and da Vinci go get some proper rest. I'm sure Charlene can look after things here."

"That I can," Charlene nodded, plucking a book off the shelf at random and settling herself in an armchair. "Go on, all of you. I have some reading to catch up on and this is the reading room."

XXXX

The man known as Simmonds stumbled through the halls of the subterranean labyrinth. His body was battered and bruised but, once again, he had returned to his queen from a successful hunt. The ingredients for his own transformation had long since been gathered. Now he brought the last item for an altogether different transformation. He picked his way into the chamber known as the holy of holies. It was not the only temple he had visited with such a chamber. Most of them had one somewhere. It was the first he had visited that had been carved out of the living rock though. On a raised platform, the queen sat, a picture of dark elegance on her throne. She raised a hand at his entrance and the room fell silent.

She looked down at the wounded man as he dropped to his knees before her. "Do you have it?"

"I do my queen," answered her acolyte with a nod.

The queen beckoned to a grey suited man in the shadows. "This relic is for your benefit, Grisholm. Take care that it reaches the bridge intact."

The grey man stepped forward and received the item from its bearer. He turned to the queen and bowed. "I shall guard it with my life, my queen."

"A noble sentiment," smiled the queen. "Though less of one when a failure to do so means that you would share its fate."


	34. Episode 7: Chapter 2

**Episode 7: The Worst Version of Himself, Chapter 2**

"How is it possible for anyone to live in New York pretty much all their adult life and not visit Bloomingdales?" Ezekiel wondered aloud, edging his way around shoppers and displays. "Even I've been in here and I've only been in the country five times before Flynn dragged me here from Geneva."

"Put it back," grinned Cassandra. "And not everyone spends their life jet setting around the globe stealing things."

Ezekiel Jones let the necklace he had removed from the display they were passing slip effortlessly into the pocket of one of the security guards bordering the door. "Force of habit," he shrugged.

"A habit I thought you were trying to break out of," Cassandra commented, hailing a taxi. The clambered in and she gave the driver the address of the dress shop she and Eve had visited in search of wedding attire. "Do _not_ let old habits get the better of you in this place. Remember these are our friends."

The journey took longer than she expected. The clear blue sky that had greeted them outside Bloomingdales had clouded over by the time they exited the vehicle. Cassandra gave Ezekiel a look and he sighed, stooping and feigning the retrieval of the taxi driver's watch from the sidewalk. Waving off a grateful cab driver, he caught up with her where she was frowning at a faded door.

"What?" Ezekiel asked, looking up at the dress shop sign. "Isn't this the place?"

"It should be," mused Cassandra dreamily. "It's in the same place. It looks the same..."

"But?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. Something doesn't feel right."

"Maybe it's your spooky magic senses picking up their portal," suggested the not quite so reformed thief. "You're better at all that now than you were then, right?"

"True," she replied, biting her lip. "Just... I don't know. Keep your eyes open."

She reached out and turned the handle. The door opened. The bell jingled. They stepped in to the familiar array of white and ivory on one side and all manner of colours on the other. The door closed.

The glamour vanished.

Cassandra and Ezekiel turned on the spot, taking in the changes in their surroundings. The contents of the dress shop had disappeared. Nothing was left but bare brick and the door at the opposite side.

"What just happened?" Ezekiel enquired in his mildest tones.

"Try the doors," ordered Cassandra, heading for the far side of the room.

Ezekiel went the opposite direction and reached the outer door first. He rattled the handle. "It won't budge."

"This is locked too," Cassandra called over her shoulder.

"Ezekiel Jones does not get beaten by a lock," muttered the World Class Thief, searching the outer door for some sign of a keyhole or locking mechanism. Unable to find one, he hastened to the interior door and did the same. Nothing. Already on his knees, he rolled round to sit with his back to the wall.

"So tell me thief," groaned Cassandra, slumping down to sit beside him. "How exactly does one go about picking a magical lock?"

XXXX

Galeas stood in the tower room, gazing out across the sea loch. From the vantage point of the window, he could see all the way up the peninsula and our to sea in one direction, and out across the formal gardens of the Dunvegan estate in the other. In the centre of the room Seonaidh sat cross legged, her eyes closed. A ripple of blue light crackled around the top of the curtain wall.

"Good," said Galeas smoothly. "You have reached the wall. That wall was the limit of your Grandmother's powers over this castle. You know the outer limits of the estate, though. They were the boundaries here when you were born, just as the palisade that preceded the curtain wall marked the boundary of the dun when she was born. Cast your mind out into the outer gardens. The bridge. The fern house. The round garden. The water gardens."

The blue light, which had been spreading steadily outwards over the formal gardens, invisible to any but those looking for it, snapped back to the curtain wall and vanished. At the same time there was a small cry of pain from the girl behind him. Galeas turned. Seonaidh sat with her head in her hands, massaging her temples.

"You must focus," he remonstrated. "You cannot hope to control your powers, or make use of their greatest range, if you allow yourself to be distracted like this."

"I'm tired," she groaned.

"Child," snapped the old man, "you do not know the meaning of the word!"

XXXX

Eve held out a hand. It was only the third time her husband had fallen flat on his face this trip. That was considerably better than this point in their trek up the glacier last time. She dragged him to his feet and brushed the flecks of ice from his jacket.

"Really? We couldn't have linked in a door closer?" Mrs Carsen grinned, trying not to laugh at the bedraggled mess that she'd married. He was her bedraggled mess, after all.

"Not without using one of our wedding rings," replied the bedraggled mess in question, fixing his satchel then wrapping his hand around hers again. "And I don't think that would send quite the right message to the giver of said rings."

"Nor the receiver," warned his wife, pausing to kiss his reddening nose. He responded by turning her face back to his and meeting her lips with his own. For a long moment, the chill of the Norwegian air was forgotten. When they parted, she stayed close. "That sends a better message though."

"I don't care if it means climbing over..."

"Stumbling over..."

"Climbing over a whole range of mountains and glaciers," said Mr Carsen softly, his eyes locked on those of his wife. "I will never, ever, take this ring off. Not for anything."

She kissed him again, running a gloved hand over his rough, unshaven cheek. "I love you too."

XXXX

Jacob Stone woke up with a start. He was in his own bed, in the apartment the library had made for him. It was a surprise at first. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept there. Between the sofa of the reading room and the chair in the office, and the incessant pace their race against the Serpent Brotherhood had taken lately, he was only vaguely sure he could pinpoint the last time he actually woke up in a bed with some degree of accuracy. And the bed in question had been a hotel one. Or had it been in Dunvegan? He ran a hand over his face and headed for the shower. When was the last time he had showered? Not so long ago, surely? Before visiting Cassandra's parents, definitely. He had come back here to get changed. And certainly since the attack on the castle. Before the funeral. Before he had watched his friend say a final goodbye to his wife. A thought crossed his mind as he left the bathroom, towel wrapped round him, and he stopped by the bedside table. Sitting inside the top drawer was a small blue box. He would have liked to say it cost him a whole month's earnings, but not even the Library paid that well. Instead, what it had cost him were a sizeable chunk of the royalties from his other secret life's last book deal.

He opened the box and took out the ring. Inside, brilliant cut diamonds nestled in curls of Victorian rose gold surrounding a central, pale blue aquamarine, also of brilliant cut. The filigree pattern of the ring itself, as it rose to spread out around the central stone, showed weaving vines and leaves in fascinatingly intricate detail. He had spent so long worrying whether or not she would like the ring, the possibility that she might not accept it hadn't even entered his mind.

He snapped the lid shut and returned the tiny treasure to its drawer. There was work to be done. He had finished one task, maybe, but there were plenty more to occupy his time while he waited on the others returning. He wanted to have another look at the Runestone and its message. There was something he was sure he was missing. There was other research, though, that was long overdue. Cassie wouldn't like it, but it would be easier without her. At least until he knew something more definite. When it was time to try confronting her parents with whatever he found, well, that would be soon enough to reopen that wound in her tangled family history.

Rubbing his eyes with one hand and carrying a cup of coffee in the other, Jacob Stone returned to the office. A bright yellow light intruded on his vision as he removed his hand. The clippings book was glowing. He checked his back pocket for his own, but it was empty. He must have left it in his rooms. Setting the coffee down by the book, he leant over its pages, scanning the clippings therein. Finally a word caught his eye.

"You gotta be kiddin' me," he groaned.

XXXX

"Time marches ever onward, my friend," stated a quiet voice in the echoing catacombs.

"There is time yet," allowed the queen. "We were thwarted once, but now we have the means to transform half our retinue at the next solstice."

"And yet you have not replaced my spear?"

The queen inclined her head. "We have... a theory to test. Mythologies overlap so very much. Loki was, in essence, a trickster god. There are many tricksters in mythology. We believe we have a... lead on the talisman of one of them."

"This transformation cannot afford to fail because of a weak and tenuous link to the intended avatar," the quiet voice snapped.

The beatific smile of the queen faltered almost imperceptibly. "The link can be maintained if a Norse item of power is used in the second part of the ritual. We already have water from the Well of Wishes for the final part. It will not fail."

XXXX

Galeas stood alone in the ancient archive. On the table before him lay a map. It was no ordinary map. It was not even an ordinary ley lines map. It was a map whose surface was currently blank: nothing more than a pale, mottled beige. It was torn at the edges, and burnt in one corner. The sides lifted themselves from the wooden table top, threatening to curl back into the rolled scroll it had spent so long as, forgotten in the hidden shelves.

He did not have here the resources of his laboratory, Galeas thought, but he had resources enough for this, and power enough for it also. More so here than there. He sprinkled black powder over the map, murmuring long forgotten words in a dead tongue. He turned the map thrice widdershins and raised a hand above it once more. This time, in his hand, he held a glowing bottle of thick, old, faintly blue glass. What he poured from it was thicker than smoke, yet more insubstantial than a liquid. It pooled in the centre of the map, spreading out over the scattered powder and aged parchment. In some places, it caused the powder to form lines and shapes. In others it swirled up into miniature tornados, carrying the powder with it and building another layer of lines above the first.

When all of the mist like, ichorous fluid had left the bottle, Galeas carefully replaced the stopper and returned the bottle to the table. He stepped back. Hanging in the air before him was a map unlike any other. It was a map that the parchment had never shown before, and it was a map that it would probably never show again. It was not a map that showed where something was.

It was a map that showed how to get there.


	35. Episode 7: Chapter 3

**Episode 7: The Worst Version of Himself, Chapter 3**

"This is ridiculous!" Ezekiel Jones spat out, storming around the edges of the room. "How can it be a locked room if there are no locks!"

"It's a trap, Ezekiel," Cassandra sighed. "There don't have to be locks on the inside, just the outside."

"It's _your_ friend's shop! Didn't she consider that you might pay her a visit sometime in the future? You know: _after_ she went and booby trapped her previous workplace?"

"We don't know that she did 'booby trap' it," Cassandra pointed out. "Maybe one of the giants who were hunting her did it. Maybe they caught up with her and captured her. She could be in real danger."

"And they just left their magical trap here?" Ezekiel queried. "After they caught her?"

"Maybe they set it up to catch her and she escaped," Cassandra countered.

"But didn't think to warn her friends in this dimension who deal with this stuff every day that there was a trap waiting to catch whoever walked in, disguised as her bridal dress shop?"

"Not everyone," Cassandra frowned. "This place wasn't busy any time we were here, but it wasn't always empty either. And Trudi did say she made enough from the shop to live on. Unless this has just happened, somebody else would have walked in to this place already."

"They'd see the same glamour we did?" Jones asked, his mind turning over the fragments of information: building a picture.

"Yes," his companion answered with a nod. "They'd see exactly what we did."

"How do we know this isn't the glamour?"

"From what Flora and Flynn have taught me, a glamour is like a band aid, a sticking plaster," she explained. "It covers the surface of something, not its interior. We're right inside the shop. There's no way this is a glamour: it's all around us."

"Yeah, but couldn't you band aid the inside of a box just as easily as the outside?" Jones pointed out.

"True, but not all of the contents," Cassandra shook her head. "At least not without me knowing: there'd be too much magic."

"Okay, no contents," the World Class Thief considered. A sly grin spread across his face. "But locks don't count as contents, right? A glamour could cover them."

Cassandra pulled a puzzled face. Trust Ezekiel Jones to think neither inside nor outside the proverbial box, but actually on the sides. "I guess so," she admitted.

"Think you can find them," her kleptomaniac colleague coaxed, flashing her an angelic smile.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What am I? Some portable magic detector that goes ding when there's stuff?"

Ezekiel considered this with a shrug and a grin. "Exactly!"

Cassandra rolled her eyes and held out a hand. Jones took it and helped her up from her dusty seat on the floor. He waved an arm expansively in front of him, bowing slightly and his friend took centre stage, and a deep breath. As the air left her lungs in a gentle sigh, he could tell that the world around her had changed. She was no longer looking at the same view as he. Her world had become filled with the waves and lines and shimmering opalescence of magic. For a moment, a mild thread of envy ran through him, wondering what the world looked like with such abilities, but even before she had turned back to him, the moment had passed and he was watching her with a fond smile.

"Well?" Jones prompted. "What news from the witchy world?"

"Okay, I'm just gonna remind you here who you're dating," Cassandra retorted, holding up a warning finger. When the everyday mask on Jones' face froze for an instant, then grew even more annoyingly impervious, she took a breath and recounted her findings. "You're right, there is a glamour on each of the locks, but there's more than that too. And they're not normal glamours, either. Something is locking them in place. A spell, or spells. When I noticed it wasn't just the locks, I looked at all of the room. There are glamours all over the place. All around the walls. And they're all locked in place."

"So we can't remove _any_ of them?" Jones groaned.

"No," Cassandra agreed, raising a hand to prevent interruption, "but I don't think we need to. Look at that wall there." The synaesthete pointed at the long wall between, but furthest from, the two doors. "Does anything stand out?"

Jones shook his head. "Nope. Not a jot."

"But if you look at it with eyes that can see magic..." Cassandra trailed off, waving a hand, palm forward, Jedi style, at the wall. Light bloomed from her palm and settled on the bricks of the wall.

Only some bricks, Jones noted.

"I am assuming that means more to you than it does to me," he wondered aloud.

Beside him, Cassandra grinned. "It's Braille," she explained. "It says one word: Librarians!"

With a red flash, a rectangular patch of glamour on the back wall disappeared, revealing a safe.

"Finally!" Ezekiel crowed triumphantly. "Now it's my turn."

As her younger colleague began to put his own unusual skill set to good use, Cassandra settled back against the wall and let her magically altered synaesthesia roam around the room. She heard a clatter and looked to see Ezekiel picking up a dropped tool. Cassandra frowned. Ezekiel Jones did not drop things. Not thief things anyway. Ten minutes, and two more dropped items, later, when the safe was still safely and stubbornly locked, Cassandra began to think that maybe there was something on her usually imperturbably pet criminal's mind. Unhurriedly, like the farmer who sidles nonchalantly up to the aged hen, warily avoiding spooking her prey, she spoke. "How's Seonaidh?"

Ezekiel froze, then continued his task, focussing very minutely, Cassandra noticed, on the complex mechanisms of the safe. He was silent for approximately two and a half minutes by the synaesthete's count.

"I have to break it off with her," he admitted, so quietly that Cassandra wasn't entirely sure her own brain hadn't supplied the sound.

"Say what now?"

"I'm going to break it off with her," he repeated, louder now and pausing in his work. "I have to."

"I thought you were in love with her?" Cassandra frowned. While Jenkins and Charlene and so many of the others had argued so much against the thief's budding relationship, Cassandra herself had never taken a side. No more than to tease her surrogate baby brother about his newest crush, at least.

"I am," replied said thief simply. "That's why I have to let her go. She's the Cailleach now, and she's part fae. And I'm..."

"What?" Cassandra frowned sympathetically, watching Ezekiel's face for clues.

"I'm a Librarian," he affirmed, still not looking at the woman who had become his most treasured friend. "I have a duty to the Library, and that sends me all over the world then keeps me here the rest of the time. She has a duty to Dunvegan. She can't leave. Ever. Not now."

"You're not the only Librarian, though," she pointed out, taking both his hands away from the task they were utterly failing to do and holding them in her own. "There's Jacob and I, and Flynn. Flynn did this job alone for years. Now he has Eve to watch his back and Jacob and I to cover the other stuff that comes up. I know it's busy right now, but..."

"What?" Ezekiel looked up, and caught Cassandra frowning down at his hands. "What is it?"

"What did you do to your right hand?" Cassandra held up his grazed and bruised hand in evidence.

Ezekiel looked away with an apologetic grimace. "I might have, you know, punched a bookcase or wall or, well, something... It was in the office. I wasn't really paying attention."

"You don't do punchy," she reminded him, trying to catch his eye.

"And apparently that there proves why," Jones chuckled, pulling away from her and turning back to the safe.

XXXX

Flynn and Eve stumbled through the back door just as Jacob Stone was gearing up to leave through it. The greeting froze on the art historian's lips with one look at their faces.

"What's wrong?" Stone asked instead. "Somethin's happened."

"Hervor's dead," replied Eve, brushing the snow off her husband's coat to hide the tremor in her usual militarily brusque tone.

"Where's Cassandra and Ezekiel?" Flynn demanded, looking round the office for traces of the other Librarians.

"Still in New York," called a stentorian voice from the mezzanine. Charlene's face appeared and the most recent veteran of the Library hurried down the stairs. "Da Vinci's back in his work room, going over the lists Jenkins and he made. He has a theory."

"Hervor's dead," Flynn repeated, looking to his old friend for guidance. "She was killed. Probably tortured first too."

"Well, I guess we know how the Serpent Brotherhood got their information," sighed Charlene.

"And made sure we couldn't get it," added Eve. She straightened and looked over to the retired receptionist. "When was the last time Jones and Cassandra checked in?"

"When they reached the shop," Charlene reported. "The thief called in to say they were there and everything looked quiet. That was three hours ago."

"Where were you going?" Flynn frowned, nodding at the bag in Stone's hands.

Stone looked down at the bag, momentarily forgotten in the face of this new blow. "Huh? Oh. Clippings book glowed. Some farmer in Germany dug up a gold drinking horn. The press are claiming it's another of the Gallehus horns."

"Galeas horns?" Eve frowned, her head snapping round from Flynn to Stone. "As in our Galeas?"

"Gallehus," repeated Stone. "It's a place in Germany where these two golden horns were dug up, one about a century after the other but only about twenty meters apart. They're incomplete and nobody's really managed to work out what they would look like if they were, plus anyone studying them has been focussed on the reliefs and carvings on the gold. Some of it's in the Elder Futhark, but most is a series of anthropomorphic and zoomorphic figures thought to be some kind of weird cipher. There are various translations of it, but they're all irrelevant."

"How so?" Eve queried, picking up the words 'cipher' and 'translations' and 'irrelevant', and going with that.

"Because the real horns were stolen in eighteen hundred and two. All they have are copies based on drawings," shrugged the cowboy. "And the drawings ain't exactly accurate."

"And you know that because..." Eve began.

"Because we have the originals," finished her husband for her. "They've been in the Library since the Librarian of the time stole them and brought them here."

"Believe it or not," Charlene chipped in, "Mr Jones is not the first thief the Library has employed. Judson used to make sure he practised all the little tricks they taught him. Just in case."

It was Stone's turn to look puzzled. "So the thief who stole the horns was working for the Library?"

"Not the one they caught," Charlene clarified, shaking her head and staring thoughtfully at the card catalogue beside her. "He just happened to be breaking in to the place on the same night. Judson did tell me once, but..."

"Either way, a third one has turned up," shrugged Stone. I gotta go grab it before somebody works out the fakes are more fake than they think."

"We'll take it," decided Flynn, who had headed for the clippings book as soon as his wife had finished brushing ice out of his hair. "You go catch up with Cassandra and Ezekiel. I would have thought they'd be back before us. I don't like it when I'm wrong."

"They're going to a wedding dress shop in New York," Stone deadpanned. "You expecting ninjas there too now?"

"It's not exactly your average dress shop," Eve admitted, switching her thick, thermal, mountain jacket for her usual one. "Or your average dressmaker."

"So what?" Stone groaned. "Labyrinths, dragons, magic houses?"

"Eh," Eve tipped her head to the side with a grin, "more like giants, dwarves, magic portals. And that's just the good guys. The Serpent Brotherhood found Hervor. How, I don't know, but they did. If they can find her, they might be able to find Trudi and Snorri too. Just, watch your back."

XXXX

Stone found his way to the dress shop, following Eve's directions when it became apparent that neither Cassandra nor Ezekiel could be reached by phone, and stood looking up at the quiet shop front. There was no movement within but, if Cassie and Jones had moved through to the back, through the portal, then there wouldn't be, would there. He shook his head and headed for the stairs, taking them two steps at a time and bursting through the door.

Cassie turned at the familiar sound of the shop bell over the door. She spotted Jacob and opened her mouth to call to him. The breath caught in her throat as the door fell back behind him and she realised she would be too late. Moments later, he jumped and his eyes flicked around the room, settling on her.

"What the hell just happened?" Jacob swore, turning circles as he staggered over to her, taking in all the changes.

"There's a glamour, a magical disguise, over the interior, the first layer of which breaks when the door closes behind you," Cassie explained, resting patient hands on her partner's forearms, stilling him. "We used my synaesthesia to break through one layer. Ezekiel's working on getting into the safe we found and maybe that will help us break through the next."

XXXX

Seonaidh crept through the empty, echoing corridors. The Chief of the clan, along with his wife, were enjoying the extended holiday she and her 'Grandfather' had persuaded them to take after Flora's funeral. The house and grounds had been closed to the public following the family bereavement, and the staff had been reduced to minimal. There were none in the house at present. Certainly not this part of it. She remembered the stories her 'Grandmother' had told her of her third and final husband. They were great stories. Stories that were so swept up in myth and folklore she did not know where one ended and the other began. Who was the man behind the myth? The only side she had ever been told of had been the hero. The perfect knight. The finder and guardian of the San Graal. Sometimes, she thought, she caught a glimpse of the husband, the lover, the soul mate, the friend of her Grandmother, but it was more in the way a story was told than in any one thing said. She had never heard tell of this side. The hunter, the captor, the mage, the vengeful one... The villain. She was afraid of him. No. Not of him. She was afraid for him.

She reached a door in the depths of the castle behind which a low murmuring could be heard. The door was old and would surely betray her with creaking hinges as it opened, but she opened her mind to it, as he himself had been teaching her to do, and let it swing silently ajar. The low murmuring grew to a deep chanting. The words were unfamiliar to her, yet they resonated with the fae magic in her blood. They were a spell then. A spell to do what? She cast an eye to the gap between the cut stone wall and the ancient oaken door. Her so-called Grandfather stood before a charcoal grey shape she could only just see the edges of. It was angular, like a series of lines and smaller shapes within. At the apex of the lines, a shining purple-blue figure rotated. If it had a face or form within, Seonaidh could not tell, but its outer form was one she could never now fail to recognise. It was that of the armour that had so treacherously struck down her Grandmother.


	36. Episode 7: Chapter 4

**Episode 7: The Worst Version of Himself, Chapter 4**

Seonaidh hurried back to her room in the tower. It wasn't so much that she was worried what her Grandfather would do if he caught her out of her appointed rooms. It was more that everything she hoped might help her situation was in that room. She had to get a message to Ezekiel. Whatever her Grandfather was planning, he would almost certainly not include her. He had made it perfectly clear that her only function now was to remain here and protect the castle: its contents, its grounds and its lineage. She stumbled into the safe haven of the room, waving a hand at the door to bar it behind her. All around her she could feel the castle and the land reaching out to her, their sympathetic arms offering comfort and protection. She groaned. She had landed on her knees when the adrenaline of her sprint up the stairs wore off. Through the denim of her jeans she could feel warm blood meet with cool stone. Her hands were no better. Scuffed and scratched from the rough walls, they had burst on connection with the hard floor. Her nails were broken. Her bright blond curls tumbled erratically around her face. She was broken, bruised, bloodied, exhausted, terrified and alone.

She got up.

Shaking like a willow over water, she turned her thoughts inward, focussed them, then sent them outward. They chased through the castle, searching high and low through rooms and attics and cellars and everywhere in between. Finally, she found it. But it was no use. The one item she had hoped could bring her help was in the very room her Grandfather had taken over, or perhaps reclaimed, as his own. She sought her mind for alternatives. A mirror was no more than a captured reflection. A magic mirror, little more than that and less in its origins. They both started the same way, didn't they? A mirror, a reflection, that was enchanted to show something other than it ought. He had been carefully, her Grandfather, when he had moved her to this room. He had made certain that nothing remotely mirror-like had been left for her use. Now she had a theory why. If she had power over the contents of the castle, and could bend them to her will, could she make a mirror show her whatever she wanted? Could she create something she had only heard of in fairy tales until a few short months ago? And could she do so without even having a mirror to use?

There may be no mirrors or metals to reflect an image in in her ineffectual prison, but there was water. He could not leave her here with nothing to drink. There was an old enamelled bowl of fruit on the dresser. She emptied its contents onto her bed and replaced them with clear water from the porcelain ewer left for her. Some of the water slopped over the edge and splattered on the stone floor. She waited, cross-legged on the floor, for the miniature waves to settle. Then she closed her eyes, turning her mind inward once again, shutting out all distractions, and directing it at the water. For a moment she saw it, particles of hydrogen and oxygen held together by forces she was no longer sure were stronger than her own. She drew back, holding her consciousness above the surface of the liquid, and focussed on the room she had glimpsed so often in her stolen chats with Ezekiel. That was the mirror in the main office of the library, he had told her. That was the one he was most likely to be near, but so was everyone else, so she should be careful to use it when the others were in bed. She didn't care who was awake or asleep now, or even what time it was there. If Ezekiel answered her, so much the better, but right now she'd take advice from any of them.

She got Charlene.

XXXX

"This is ridiculous!" Stone groaned. They were on their third safe. The first had been a simple lock, which Jones had, eventually, picked open. Inside the safe had been a pair of glasses, which of course the thief claimed as his own. The glasses had revealed another message, this time longer than one word. It had been a riddle. The riddle, which, had the first word spotted by Cassie not suggested so already, made it clear the series of puzzles had been left specifically for them, also boiled down to another key word. That word revealed another safe. That safe required numbers. Numbers that were keyed in next to letters. The letters themselves made no sense to him. There was no pattern, no particular language he could detect. There wasn't even the same number of letters in each case. There was a "V", an "A", a "W". Then there was an odd "Sv" followed by an "N". Apparently it was the very "Sv" that had confused him that had cracked the case for Cassandra. They were all scientific units. He and the thief had stood back while she incomprehensibly came up with a number for each of them, then crowded forward to see the contents as the door swung open. There was a key. Fabulous: they had a key. Only problem: no lock. Then there had been the letters on the wall behind them. Another glamour dropped when they had solved the science puzzle. This one was definitely more along his lines. Words were scrawled on the wall in a cursive script. The language was one he was only vaguely familiar with, but he managed to work it out. Another riddle. Together, they solved it, which meant he and Cassie had thought out loud while they mulled it over and Jones had jumped in with the solution. That solution had led to most of the letters falling away from the wall and disappearing before they hit the ground. The ones that were left rippled as if in a breeze. An anagram. Cassie had been the first to decipher it, naturally, and before its echoes had even had the chance to die away, the third safe appeared before them.

Jacob Stone ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. This one was numbers again, but an old fashioned analogue dial rather than the digital version of before. The thief had his ear to it even as the cowboy's internal rant ran its course. Beside him, Cassie had a thoughtful look on her face, as if the first number Jones had called out had been familiar. The kid called out a second and her blue eyes went wide. Jacob chuckled as the woman he loved batted away the thief's hands like a bickering prom queen and took over at the dial. The safe door swung open to reveal an inlaid wooden box. The box was fastened with an ornate bronze lock. The key they had found fitted the lock.

Cassie did the honours and lifted the domed lid. Nestled in a dark blue velvet, a deep red stone glowed with some internal light. Cassandra reached out a hand and he grabbed it. What if all this was just a trap for them after all? While they were arguing about it, the thief snuck in and unhooked something from the lid of the box. It was a folded piece of paper that, on closer inspection, turned out to be a letter from the otherworldly couple apologising for the safety measures they had put in place before their flight. They had assured the Librarians they were safe, or as safe as could be expected for now, and had explained how to lift the glamours and enchantments disguising the room. They had also explained why, when rumours came to them of the death of a valkyrie, they had felt the need to flee. The letter had gone on to talk about the possible places the couple might find themselves able to build a new portal, pointing out that the sites of the old portals were always the easiest to use. It even went on to describe how the humans, when faced with these portals, had built temples over them, or sometimes under them or around them, and how the oldest of these had been deliberately buried by the humans ten thousand years ago. In fact the oldest Trudi could think of that even still worked was at least five thousand years old and hidden below a city on a small island somewhere in the Mediterranean.

Stone looked up as Cassandra finished reading the rambling epistle. "We need to get this back to Flynn and Eve."

XXXX

"We have a location!" Stone yelled, bursting through the double doors a full three strides ahead of Jones and Cassandra.

"We have a bigger problem," drawled Charlene, unrepentantly throwing verbal iced water on the cowboy.

"We have bad guys, end of the world," retorted the peeved art historian, "with an option on how to stop 'em. I mean, what beats that?"

"We have one of the few semi-immortals actively on our side about to go rogue and make things ten times worse," itemised Charlene, with secretarial sangfroid, "dark magic is being used in one of the places it really, really shouldn't, and a fairy princess in her very own tower breaking a whole lot of rules calling for help."

That brought a spark back into the thief's eyes. "Seonaidh? What's wrong? What rules? And how'd she call for help: he took her phone and all her mirrors away!"

Charlene winced. She hadn't missed the push it had taken to gain Ezekiel's attention, or the careless, nameless reference to his former mentor. There was no way this was going to end well. "Well 'he' did," she intoned, watching the youngest member of their group carefully. "That's just one of the rules she broke calling here. Your young lady made a mirror of her own. Jenkins, or Galeas, or whatever he's calling himself these days, has been pushing her. He thinks that, because her powers extend beyond the curtain wall of the castle, she's already more powerful than Flora. He doesn't know that Flora's powers extended that far too. As the family gained more land, and the boundaries of the estate grew, her abilities and protection grew with them. She had already learned how to control her magic though. Your girl Seonaidh seems to have skipped that lesson."

"What's wrong?" Ezekiel repeated, breaking away from Cassandra's side and pushing past Stone to come face to face with the older woman. Charlene folded her arms and stood her ground. The glare she levelled at the ex-thief made him think twice about the tone he used next. "She wouldn't have called here like that for no reason, and you said she called for help, so what help did she need. What's going on there?"

"Did you even hear the first two items on my little list?" Charlene remonstrated, pushing past the boy and dragging a drawer out of the card catalogue. "Galahad, the Perfect Knight, has gone rogue. He is going after the Serpent Brotherhood himself, which will, by the way, get him killed. Right now, I'm not even ten percent sure that fact bothers him in the slightest. It bothers me, and it should bother you, if only for the fact that we're going to need him if this latest ploy of theirs does go all the way to the final battle. Add to that the ridiculous idea that he's actually going after his own armour and weaponry first, which, might I remind you, is already in their control and, indeed, under it! And it's exactly what they'll expect him to do, so no matter how indestructible he may think he is, they will be ready for him! And to top it all off, your girlfriend described the spell he used to find it clearly enough for those of us who have actually spent a lifetime around magic, albeit a single one, to know it is _not_ an enchantment of pixie dust and rainbows! And he cast it in the oldest part of a fae stronghold! The man is an imbecile and he's going to get us all killed!"

Jones took the slip of paper the seething Charlene foisted on him and looked down at it. "I know where this is," he faltered, recognising the artefact listed on the card. "But it's not this, he's just grieving."

"Check," Charlene demanded, extending and wiry and immobile arm in the direction of the main Library. "Save me the trouble of working out what in the world you did to my filing system out there! And you'd better pray that thing has fallen in his pocket at some point, because if this is him without it we're gonna need more than heaven to help us!"

Mollified, and possibly slightly terrified, the thief departed, dodging with fluid ease through the swinging double doors as da Vinci entered. He looked from the grey face of Charlene, to the silent and stern features of Stone, to the wide eyed worry of Cassandra.

"Something has happened," da Vinci stated warily. "What?"

"Just get Flynn and Eve back here," ordered Charlene, disappearing back up the stairs. "Pronto, or whatever the Italian equivalent is."

Jacob raised a sheepish hand and opened his mouth, but before he could say 'hey presto', a shimmering, translucent blue hand clamped it shut. He glanced at his own girlfriend to see an expression reminiscent of one he'd seen in a certain tapestry nearly a year ago. He held his hands up in surrender. The blue hand disappeared.

" _I_ will go see if Charlene needs any help," sighed Cassandra, enunciating her words clearly and slowly. "You stay and help Leo reset the door for Flynn and Eve. When Ezekiel gets back come and tell us what he found. If you're bored I suggest you start looking for a way to take down Jenkins because if there is one, other than just Seonaidh and I, you can be sure the Serpent Brotherhood will already know about it."

"Yes ma'am," Stone muttered, watching today's short pleated skirt flounce up the stairs.

"Was Jenkins the only man around here who was allowed make his own mind up about things?" Da Vinci asked with a petulant sigh.

"You're kidding, right?" Stone raised an eyebrow at the old master. "You've met Eve."


	37. Episode 7: Chapter 5

**Episode 7: The Worst Version of Himself, Chapter 5**

"My Queen, I have a question, if I may," murmured the sibilant susurration of a voice in the crepuscular half-light of the cavern.

The queen turned, and was met with the sinuous undulations of a cobra, winding its way around her supplicant's arm and hand. "Speak your mind."

The entwined arm lowered, passing the creature from one limb to another. "Why here? Surely the other site would be better. More appropriate to our cause?"

"Perhaps," the queen nodded. "But it is not yet ready for our use. It's link to the rainbow is weaker at present. This link is active, to the extent that it has even gained a reputation as being haunted. The local Maltese will not venture into some of its chambers for fear that they will be spirited away to some place. It is precisely this that makes these halls perfect for our current needs. There are fewer and fewer days left before the equinox, the time of change. Our other site will not be ready before then. This is ready now. It may not have the power to initiate my final transformation, but for yours, and for the others, it will suffice."

"And when your transformation takes place?"

"All the others should become solid, like an arch when the keystone is added, and your full power will be released," the queen explained, her regal manner and academic voice stating the desired outcomes as if they were proven facts. "And then," she continued, reaching out to run gentle fingers along the spine of the snake, "then we shall remake the world anew, and we shall rule."

XXXX

In the depths of the castle, standing in what once was the heart of the old dun, Galeas raised a hand and chanted. A shadow deepened in the darkness before him. The power it would take to open a portal such as this would drain him. He knew that. All magic had a cost. Always. None more so than dark magic. This would cost him. Dearly. But he could afford that cost. He had enough magic in him to pay the debt and more. Enough to follow the shadow path. The path shown him. Enough to reach the other end. To reach his goal. And there was no other way to do that. Even knowing where his armour was wouldn't help him. He couldn't open a wormhole there. He had tried. Something was protecting it. Forcing his hand. He had tried other options. All of them. And he knew of more than most. Finally, he had been left with the choice he now made. He knew the dangers. They might harm another, maybe even kill them, but not him. The drain on his life force would be no more than a minor inconvenience. A price that he alone could, and would, pay willingly.

As the blood dripped from his open hand, the dark portal opened. A road lay before him in the blackness, twisting with a soft lustre, like a ribbon of velvet on a sheet of satin. It beckoned him. With bold heart and outstretched hand, he stepped forward, into the shadows.

And the portal closed behind him.

XXXX

Flynn Carsen, Librarian, sat amongst the bookshelves. He should have seen it coming. He really should. Everything had just been going too well. He had the Library back. He had his adventures. His team. His friends. He had Eve. He was _married_ to Eve! He knew they had a future together. A future with a son. _He_ would have a _son_! _He_ was going to be a _father_! The thought terrified him and exulted him in equal measure. Everything had been good.

Too good.

And that always meant there was something coming.

And there was.

When he and his wife - he and his wife: he loved that phrase - had returned from their honeymoon, he really hadn't been surprised to find a new world threatening... well, threat on their doorstep. He had taken it in his stride. They had dealt with worse than this. And with his knowledge and Jenkins' knowledge and the others, they would win out in the end.

But Jenkins had deserted them, taking his vast and deep knowledge of the Library, it's contents and their magic with him. Not only that, but now, if Charlene was to be believed - and Flynn couldn't imagine a world where she wasn't - he had effectively turned against them. He had chosen a path that could only lead to bloodshed. That began with it. A path that neither Flynn himself, nor any other Librarian or Guardian, could follow. A path that meant death to all but the undying.

And why?

To take revenge?

Flynn looked down through the balusters of the mezzanine to where his wife - his beloved wife - was terrifying da Vinci into compliance. God, how he loved her. She was his anchor, his home, his heart, his soul. She made him feel complete. Whole, for the first time in his life. Content. What would he do if he lost her? What would he give to punish those who had taken her from him?

What would he sacrifice?

His life?

His soul?

In a heartbeat.

So, yes: he could understand Jenkins' wish for revenge. His desire to rain down justice on those who had denied him the time he had waited so patiently for. The time to say goodbye the way they had always wished. The way they had planned. The way they had promised each other.

He could not understand the blanket refusal of any aid. Neither he nor any of the others had been able to reach the semi-immortal knight. Not even the two he had seemed to care most about. Cassandra had been sent away with a terse rebuttal. Ezekiel had been ignored entirely. Not even the resources of the Library, immeasurable as they were, were enough to tempt him to return. Instead he had turned to other ways. Old ways. Blood magic.

Darkness.

And Flynn had no idea what guiding light might bring him home.

XXXX

"I got nothing," Jacob Stone reported, leaning back on the central desk and pressing the heels of his hands into his tired eyes.

Cassandra stepped over to him, took both of his hands in hers and brought them gently to her lips. "We'll find something."

"I think I just did," Jones' voice was muffled by the bookshelves around him. He emerged holding a leather-bound tome, its gold edged pages glinting in the light.

"What've you got?" Eve demanded walking over from Jenkins' desk.

Jones placed the book down on the desk. The words on the pages were framed by curling capitals illuminated in gold leaf and green ink.

"Is that a book of fairy tales?" Stone frowned down at the page over the lucky thief's shoulder. "Last time we dealt with storybook stuff wasn't exactly a walk in the park."

Cassandra stepped daintily over to Ezekiel's other side. "Oh, I don't know. I had fun," she smiled, looking from the colourful page to her parchment pale hand, remembering the first time she had truly felt magic take hold of her.

"Yeah, I remember!" Stone growled, mentally flicking through all the women who had suddenly been falling over themselves to be near her. She hadn't really seemed to mind either. Even after the effects had worn off. "There something you want to tell me?"

Cassie looked round at him, over Ezekiel's head, and smirked, one dainty eyebrow arching playfully. Jacob felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards into a treacherous smile. Cassie's grin broadened. Both eyebrows rose innocently. Jacob threw her a look that said he wasn't falling for that act. He knew better. She bit her lip and looked away, giggling silently.

"Whatever wordless conversations you two are having behind my back," cut in their younger colleague, "can you at least wait until I'm not stuck in the middle of you!"

"It's fine," sighed Eve, a weary half smile teasing up one side of her mouth. "Just tell us what you've found Jones."

Ezekiel ducked away from the two lovers on either side of him and brought the book round to Eve, handing it to her with an indication of where to start reading. Flynn, who had, by this time, descended from the upper floor, wrapped an arm around his wife's waist and read the tale alongside her. Ezekiel rolled his eyes and retreated to the wall.

"It's the story of the Castle of the Golden Sun, by Friedmund von Arnim," explained the youngest member of the group. "It mentions a crystal ball with magical powers. On its own, I know: its hardly anything. But the thing is I saw a crystal ball here once."

"There's one on Jenkins' desk," Cassandra nodded. "He mentioned it once, back when you were ill. Said it was a present from a king."

Ezekiel stood up straight, his arms unfolding instinctively. "In the story, the hero who retrieves the crystal ball becomes a king. He uses the ball's magical powers to transform his brothers back into their human forms, they'd been turned into a whale and an eagle by their mad mother years before, and lift the spell that kept the princess trapped and her true form hidden. If that's the same ball, with the same powers, could it turn Jenkins back into his usual self?"

"What are the chances of that great paperweight being the same magical crystal ball from a fairy tale you just found?" Eve enquired, waving a hand in the direction of the sphere peeping out from behind a box camera on the abandoned desk.

"In this place, my love?" Flynn countered, kissing her temple. "It wouldn't surprise me if Ezekiel had just happened to 'find' that book lying open to a certain page?"

Ezekiel caught the questioning glance thrown his way and tipped his head in acknowledgement. "The Library misses him too."

"But how do we use it?" Cassandra frowned, flicking through the pages of the book that had been passed over to her and Jacob once again. "The brothers, and the princess, they had all been physically, magically changed from one form to another. Jenkins, he hasn't. There's no magic involved here, he's just..."

"He's just grieving," finished Charlene from above. "He's grieving. And for him, the process is going to be far worse than for any of us. We're lucky if we get to spend a single lifetime with those we love. He spent several lifetimes just waiting for the chance to be with her. When we lose someone we love deeply, we all go through the same process. We go through it in different ways, sure, but it's the same stages. I'm not sure which stage he's in right now, but I'm pretty sure anger plays a part. You don't need something magical to turn him back to himself. He's being himself. Himself at his worst, maybe, but still himself. He needs to go through this process and find a way on to the next stage. Find a way out of the head space he's got himself stuck in. That doesn't need magic: that needs you. Us. His friends. Being patient. Being kind. Being supportive. And being strong enough to tell him he's being an ass and stop him doing something that'll eventually get us all killed. Stop looking for ways to change him and start looking for ways to knock him out and get him back here where we can sit him down and do just that!"

Silence.

The Librarians looked down, avoiding each other's gazes. Stone mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that Chuckles?" Charlene called down.

The art historian raised his head, mouth in a fixed rictus grin. "Yes, ma'am."

Charlene nodded. "Good. Because I think I've worked out where he's going."

"What?" Flynn's head spun round to look up at the older woman. "Where? When? How?"

Charlene's lip curled in a wry smirk. "Which one do you want me to answer first?"

"Where is he?" Eve cut in, before her husband could ask something else. "And how do we get there?"

XXXX

Galeas tested the strength of the aged timber before him. All around him, creaks and groans played their haunting melody of time forgotten. Dank, salty air filled the cabin with a heavy, dull atmosphere. It was draining his hope. It was draining his life. He knew he was weakening. He could feel it. Centuries of feeling no more of the effects of time than the occasional ache, and the slow drag of time across his outward features. He had searched every other deck. This was the last. He would find it soon. He would have to. He would find it or die trying. And when he found it, when he was reunited with the symbols of his true self. Then he would have his revenge.

XXXX

Cassandra looked up from the book. The others were looking at her expectantly.

"Can you do it?" Jacob asked gently.

"I can try," she shrugged. "It'll take more power than I have, though."

"You have a whole Library here to borrow from, Cassie," he murmured softly. "You can do this."

"Don't we need blood for this?" Eve frowned at Charlene, her hand on her sleeve, ready to roll it up.

"No! No," replied the older woman, "that's the last thing we need! Jenkins, Galeas, whatever, he used it because he had to. He has no fairy blood. He can't access the magic of the castle or it's keepers. We have a Library and its Librarian. We don't need a castle."

"So, what?" Eve demanded. "We just line up Cassandra with our magic wormhole and use her to channel the Library's magic through it?"

"Not exactly," replied Flynn, the hesitation in his voice, and the way none of the others were meeting her gaze, doing nothing to allay Eve's fears.

"What are you doing Librarian?" Mrs Carsen growled, her arms folding into a stern knot.

"Cassandra can see magic and can move it around," Mr Carsen explained, waving his arms in a vague parody of one of Cassandra's synaesthetic moments and ignoring the glares from Cassandra, Jacob and Ezekiel this earned him. "She can channel it and direct it, and, to an ever increasing level, control it. But the level of magic actually in her. The magic she herself has taken in and allowed to become a part of her. That's still far too low for this. I, on the other hand..."

"Have ten years more magic than any of them do," finished his wife, tipping her head in the direction of their three surrogate offspring. "By that logic, surely da Vinci has more magic than any of you. Why isn't he here?"

"Leonardo has been away from magic, and the Library, for a long time," her husband admitted, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. "Somehow, either because of that or for some other reason, he has less magic... less power... than I do."

"Huh," she pulled a face. "Power. I married the most powerful person in the room. Did not see that one coming."

"Only magically powerful..."

"Uh-huh..."

"And I suppose if knowledge is power..."

"Don't push it..."

"My wife still has the knowledge of how to kick my ass in ten seconds flat."

"Got that one right."

"Always, my love."

"Be careful, Librarian."

"Always, Guardian."

Eve held Flynn's gaze in silence for a long moment, her eyes boring into his soul, searching for anything he might be hiding. She had listened to Charlene's descriptions of the spells Jenkins had used, the side effects they would have. She had listened to the details of the hidden place he was going to. It was another first. This time, the first of its kind to be recorded. It wasn't a lost Mayan city, or some other place, that had been newly discovered. It was a place famous for its disappearance. And now her husband was going to be used to form a solid link with this place so that she and most of the rest of the people she cared about in this world could charge in and rescue the only other person on that list not currently present or trapped in her very own tower. She hadn't heard anything yet that would remove the weight growing in the pit of her stomach. To quote every Star Wars movie ever made: she had a bad feeling about this.

She raised her hands in surrender. She still didn't like it but she was out of arguments and hadn't come up with any better options yet. "So we're going. Then what? We find him, Cassandra knocks him out, we bring him back here, right?"

"Er, you'll have to do the knocking out," Ezekiel winced. "Or, you know, Stone, but since he still pretty much hits like a girl and I don't do punchy..." Three decidedly female glares were levelled at the ex-thief's head. "A little, tiny weak girl, obviously, not an utterly awesome and freakishly scary woman."

"What he means is Cassie has to stay here and keep the door open," Stone filled in the burgeoning silence. "She can't come with."

"So it's just us three?" Eve clarified.

"Four," chipped in Charlene. "I'll be there too."

"Charlene?" Flynn frowned. "You don't go on missions. You've never gone on missions."

"Never's a long time, Flynn," smiled the retired receptionist, straightening her Librarian's cravat. "And I've been around here a lot longer than you have, remember? You didn't think I always did the same job, did you?"

"You...?"

"I wasn't always this old either," she reminded him. "Don't worry: I'm tougher than I look."

"I don't doubt it..." Flynn trailed off.

"So," Cassandra cut in. "Shall we?"

Flynn looked round and down at the delicate, dainty hands the redhead was holding out to him. He nodded, unsure of his voice for the moment, and placed his hands in hers.

The others stepped back as Cassandra and Flynn began chanting the words of the spell. It was the same spell Galeas had used, just without the blood magic, so it would open the door to the same spot that his version had. The price would be smaller, less severe, and would only affect them, but they hadn't bothered to worry the others with those little details. They would only have been a distraction. Flynn's hands tightened on Cassandra's as he felt the power begin to leave him. Magic always has a cost. That ever present warning had always kept him from experimenting too much with the abilities he knew he had gained through the years. Not unless he knew the cost and was willing to pay it. He knew this one. He was willing.

The portal that opened up before Eve and the others was nothing like their friendly little wormhole, stuck behind a door. This portal grew, like a shadow, into a wavering rectangle of velvety darkness. There were no doors involved here. At the edges of her vision, she saw the two men throw a glance at each other. By her side she heard Charlene speak up.

"I'll take Chuckles, you take Houdini," murmured the older woman. "We split into two pairs, we search the place in half the time."

"And if we're too late?"

"We get back here in half the time and start planning our next move sooner."

Eve nodded and locked a hand on Ezekiel's collar. "Jones, you're with me."

And the darkness closed behind them like a vice.


	38. Episode 7: Chapter 6

**Episode 7: The Worst Version of Himself, Chapter 6**

The deck of the ship creaked below their feet. It creaked above their heads and around their sides as well, but their movements weren't the cause of those noises.

"Remind me," murmured Eve under her breath, dragging Jones left to a set of semi-rotten planks that claimed to be stairs, "where exactly are we?"

"On board the Pickering," breathed her stealthy companion, whose feet were definitely causing fewer creaks than Eve's. "One time revenue cutter, then appropriated by the American navy. Melted away into the inclement weather of the Bermuda Triangle in eighteen hundred. Never to return."

"We're _inside_ the Bermuda Triangle?" Eve's hissed whispers went up in pitch if not volume. "Did that get missed off the memo for a reason?"

"Probably the fact that we all knew already and you had enough to freak out about without adding more," suggested the silent stealer. "Predominantly the primary part of that."

"I don't freak out, I voice my concerns," growled Eve. "Sometimes loudly!"

"You're adorable," he retorted, and she could hear the smirk.

"You've been spending too much time with Jenkins," she snapped. She regretted the words as soon as she'd said them. She'd let him get to her. The irritating, annoying, smug, arrogant way he'd been talking had reminded her too much of days gone by. Days back when this adventure first began. When he was still a thief, Stone was still several secret identities, Cassandra was still ill, Flynn was still pushing everyone away and Jenkins was still, well, Jenkins. The sharp intake of breath she'd expected never came, but then Jones _was_ a World Class Thief: he was better trained than that. The silence that descended around them thickened. She winced. There had been no sharp witty comeback.

"Could have spent more time with him recently," murmured a soft voice by her side. He sounded unusually young, almost wistful. It was probably the most vulnerable she had ever heard Ezekiel Jones sound. It reminded her of the alternate Ezekiel she had met, so very long ago now.

"I'm sorry, Ezekiel," Eve began, reaching a hand out to where the disembodied voice in the darkness suggested there might be a shoulder. There was. "It's not your fault. It's not anyone's fault."

"I should have listened to him," sighed the hidden voice. "All along, I should have listened to him. He knew what he was talking about."

"What _are_ we talking about?" Eve frowned, more than a little confused. The shoulder under her vaguely supportive hand moved forward, into the illumination of her flashlight. The light bounced oddly off his features and it took more than a moment for Eve to realise that the young man's face was streaked with tears. She frowned. "Ezekiel?"

"I have to let her go," he whispered, dragging a hand across his damp face. "If I don't, one day this will be me."

"What? Let who go?" Eve blinked. "Seonaidh?"

Ezekiel nodded, drawing in long, shaky breath.

"What makes you think this will happen to you if you don't?" Eve enquired, almost casually. "You're not Jenkins, Galeas, Galahad, whatever we're calling him now, here. There's nothing to say either of you will even live half as long as he and Flora did, never mind get stuck with a curse like theirs."

"I saw it," he replied, his eyes sliding away from hers.

"You what now?" Eve's eyebrows rose. "When was this, exactly?"

"Back when we were checking the artefacts for fakes," Ezekiel admitted, his eyes closed as he struggled to keep control of his breathing. "There was a mirror. Bronze. Celtic origin. I shouldn't have looked, but... It showed me a lot. It showed me here. _Me_ , here. Not like this, though. Older. It showed me why..."

"That doesn't mean it has to happen that way," replied Eve, her voice soothing and gentle. She had kept her hold firm on his shoulder, but now it softened. "The future isn't a changeless thing. What we choose to do, or not do, affects it. Someone I trust once told me 'I don't believe in fate', and he's been right so far."

"You've been to the future, though," Ezekiel pointed out, his voice trembling once more. "You've seen it. You were there. Where was I?"

"I don't know," she sighed softly, brushing away a stray tear on the youngest Librarian's face with her free hand. "I don't know where any of you were. I was only there a very short time, and I only met Judson. All he had time to tell me was what I needed to know to make sure he's there with the right information when time gets there the long way round."

"Then it could happen," he murmured despondently, turning his eyes away from hers again. "If I don't break both our hearts now, I'll go crazy too when she..."

"I'm not crazy."

The words were spoken so softly Eve might have through she imagined them. Ezekiel's reaction, however, was confirmation enough. Beneath her hand, still resting protectively on his shoulder, she had felt every muscle tense. His eyes had snapped up and zoned in on a point behind her. She sighed and turned. "Sane people don't break every rule in the book to walk straight into the jaws of death."

"You do when you're protecting the people you love," replied the ever stately tones of Jenkins.

"Not like this."

"You did."

"We used a different power source."

"The Library."

"Yes."

"And Flynn?"

"How...?" Eve's eyes narrowed.

"You were foolish," sighed the old man, sounding older now than he ever had. "The Library should not be weakened at this time. Not for this. Not for me."

"If you failed..."

"I already have."

The statement was so succinct, so final, that a shiver ran down the Guardian's spine. She turned her flashlight fully on the far side of the ship. Seated on the floor, propped up against a great wooden chest, was Jenkins. He looked worn and pale, weary and weak. She moved to his side, and Ezekiel was there at his other before she ever heard him move. Together, they heaved the much taller man to his feet. He was worryingly light.

"The spell I cast," he breathed. "It draws its power from my life force. Power, focus, effect. Always those three. And always a cost. I was willing to pay that cost, if it meant you would all live. I have nothing left here now. Nothing but the one small group of people who have invaded my life for the past few years. It seemed a fair exchange. My life for all of yours. All I had to do was hold on long enough to find it. I knew I only had so long to search. I didn't find it in time."

"Find what?" Eve asked, ninety percent sure she already knew.

"My armour. My shield. My sword," murmured the old man as they dragged him up the rudely complaining stairs. "They are mine. They are a source of my strength, my power. Their magic sustains me. Only me. They cannot be claimed by another until I am gone and a suitable candidate steps forward to take my place."

"But do the Serpent Brotherhood know that?" Eve wondered aloud.

"Maybe," admitted Jenkins, trying to shrug but not having the energy to do so. "They have Mhairi. She was not destined to be the next Cailleach, but she still had to know some of the history of the family. I do not know how much Flo... my wife told her."

They reached the top of the steps. The portal glimmered darkly in the gloom. Eve looked around. "Stone! Charlene! We got him! Get back here!"

An answering shout hailed them from somewhere in the distant shadows. From the far end of the deck a shape emerged, hurrying towards them. It swiftly resolved itself into two shapes, one closer than the other. The latter shadow was somewhat encumbered by a large consignment that distorted their outline beyond recognition. The former gradually metamorphosed into the image of Charlene, bearing sword and shield towards them. The shield was white with a red cross.

"And we got the goods," she called, once she was sure she was within earshot. She stopped short in front of Jenkins and hefted the hilt of the sword towards him. "Yours, I believe."

Unfolding an arm from Eve's shoulders, the knight reached out and gripped the hilt of the sword with one hand, resting its scabbard sheathed blade in the other. He breathed in deeply, eyes closed, and it seemed to Eve that he was standing a little straighter than before. He fastened the scabbard to his belt and took the shield that Charlene was now handing him, setting it in place on his shield arm with a sigh. Stone came hurrying up, a pile of armour in his arms. He gave Jenkins an appraising look and nodded warily. The Caretaker nodded back.

"Let's get out of here," growled Charlene. "I hate these places. They give me the creeps."

XXXX

The queen walked through the halls of the ancient temple. Through the doorway to her left, she knew, lay the parts of the underground labyrinth the tourist tours never transversed. There were stories about them. Ghost stories. Mysteries. But then there were always mysteries and ghost stories about places like this. They had stopped the tourists interfering. An official archaeological survey. Such things were so simple to arrange, and could take such an unpredictable length of time.

She walked towards the hand-cut doorway, carved into the rock centuries before the pyramids were even begun. Through that dark and forbidding tunnel there lay a maze of chambers her minions were even now mapping. They returned at set meal times. Mostly. She was very interested in the ones that didn't. Many of the stories told of people disappearing. A few told of intrepid, or perhaps foolish, adventurers who had wandered into the tunnels only to catch a terrifying glimpse of rooms they knew could not possibly be there. People they knew could not possibly be there. One or two suggested a link between the underground temple here and those above ground, farther outside the centre of the town. She wondered which stories were true. Were any of them? Were they all?

Walking up to the doorway, she ran a delicate hand over the edges of its hand-hewn walls. She could feel the power there, just as easily as she could feel the lines cut by the tools of the makers. Lines that worked their way along the tunnel. Towards her.

XXXX

The road through the portal was invisible but solid enough underfoot. The first sign Eve had that something was wrong occurred when she felt her foot sink in the velvet darkness below her.

"Take my arm," ordered Jenkins. "All of you! Quickly!"

Four hands reached out and grabbed one or other of Jenkins' arms. The blackness around them dissolved and resolved itself into another darkness. Once again, the road was solid beneath them. Once again, the atmosphere around them was nothing but a silent void.

"What happened?" Stone growled under the weight of the armour he was still carrying.

"We must hurry," Jenkins dictated. "Quickly. With me. Do not let go!"

"Why not?" Eve demanded, fear blooming in the back of her mind. "What's wrong?"

"We've switched paths," answered Charlene. "We're not on our road any more. We're on his."

"How...?" Eve began, then stopped as a circular stone walled room appeared around them as suddenly as if someone had switched on a light.

"Somehow the connection to the portal at the Library has been cut," Jenkins explained, turning to Stone and lifting the armour out of the cowboy's overburdened arms. "Ladies, I need you to find my granddaughter and activate the Library wormhole at this end. Charlene I believe you know the way from here. Gentlemen..."

"I need to talk to Seonaidh," interrupted Ezekiel, ignoring the two women hurrying to follow Jenkins' instructions.

"Not right now you don't," returned his old mentor, shaking his head. "That is necessary, but can wait. This is more pressing."

"What is?" Stone rumbled, worry starting to show on his features.

"We need to get back to the Library and it would be advisable to play our strongest hand when we do so."

"Cut the cryptic, Jenkins," snapped Stone. "Cassie was holding that portal open too."

"Ah, I thought as much," he nodded, "but I hoped not. Gentlemen, I need you to help me into my armour. I am neither as young as I was, nor as strong at present, but with my knightly accoutrements complete I should begin to heal much faster. Let the ladies arrange our transport while we set about returning me to full strength."

By the time they had done so, and joined the women three floors above, the doors to the castle library were shimmering with a familiar light. Jenkins nodded to Charlene and she pushed the doors open. With a faint pop, she stumbled through, leading the others into exactly what she had feared she would see.

The office was empty.

Ezekiel was the last to step through the portal. He didn't trust himself, wasn't sure that he could lie to her, but he couldn't leave in silence. He looked over to Seonaidh, whom he now saw was watching him closely.

"You're leaving," she said, her simple words full of complicated meanings.

"We all are," he replied, sticking to what he knew to be true.

"But you will not be returning," she countered, and this time the shuddering weight of honesty was palpable in her voice.

"We need to talk about things," he tried, but he knew she had the truth of it even as he said it.

Seonaidh stepped closer and kissed him, resting her hands on either side of his face. "We just did," she sighed.

He watched her turn and walk away, vanishing along the ornate corridor like a ghost.

A hand reached through the portal and dragged him to his senses, and to the Library. With his other hand, Jenkins closed the door to the wormhole behind them, then turned to the youngest Librarian with a stern, and somehow saddened, look.

"Look around, Thief," Jenkins ordered. "What do you see?"

Ezekiel shook his head, blinking his eyes as if to erase the memory they had just created. He looked around. "I see nothing. The place is empty. Where is everyone?"

"That's what we're trying to work out, Jones," snapped Stone. "While you were daydreamin', we were here looking for Flynn and Cassie. They should be here. They wouldn't have just let the portal close like that!"

"What about the first aid room?" Ezekiel suggested. "If one of them passed out it would break the connection and the other would take them there."

"Not there," called Eve, marching back into the room at a pace that would have impressed the toughest drill sergeant. "Not answering phones or shouts either."

"Look around, _Thief_ ," Jenkins repeated, emphasising the last word. "Two of our friends have disappeared at a time when we know they would never have gone anywhere willingly or without leaving some trace for us if they can. So look around. What. Do. _You_. See?"

"Three," corrected Charlene. "Da Vinci's gone too."

"Tell me something I wasn't expecting," growled Jenkins. He looked back to Ezekiel. "Well?"

His eyes roamed the office of the Library, taking in every detail. Eve was the only one of them that could every be called tidy, but there was order in their chaos. There was the pile of books Cassandra had been working through. There the dust covered tome Charlene had brought down with the spells to the lost places. The book of fairy tales he had found lay discarded at one end of the central desk. He closed his eyes and focused inward.

It was time Ezekiel Jones, World Class Thief, returned to the Library.


	39. Episode 8: Chapter 1

**Episode 8: As Big As We Need it To Be, Chapter 1**

"At least one of them was alive and conscious when they were taken," deduced Ezekiel, pausing by Eve and Flynn's desk. "This lamp: it's always turned left towards the books."

"It could have been knocked," grumbled Jacob, his arms folded and face dark.

"No, he's right," Eve nodded. "Flynn's always bumping into it when I'm using the desk and he's trying to distract me. There's no way an accidental knock would have moved it all the way round to exactly the opposite direction."

"How are you so calm right now?" Jacob growled through gritted teeth.

Eve shook her head. "Believe me, I'm not calm on the inside. But we have a good team, right? We'll find them. Ezekiel: what else?"

"The books," he gasped, realising what had been bugging him about them. "The books on the lecterns. They're all on different pages. Every single one of them has been changed. Even the fairy tale book."

"That has to be Cassie," decided Jacob. "No way, if they're attacked, are they gonna have time to run round all four open books here, changing the pages. And if they did, there'd be a lot more signs of it than just that. It had to be done by magic."

"Flynn can use magic too," Charlene reminded them. "So can the Library, remember."

"Right," nodded Ezekiel. "So it didn't have to be either of them that changed anything. Just the Library, telling us who was taken."

"We already know who was taken," frowned Eve.

"Do we?" Jenkins asked, walking over to look at the pages the books had been changed to.

"Flynn, Cassandra and Leonardo," she pointed out, counting them off on her fingers.

"Don't be so sure of that," murmured the old man.

"Cassie wouldn't betray us again," retorted Jacob, spinning on his heel to face the knight. "Not now she knows the sides."

"I wasn't thinking of her," he replied, raising his hands in appeasement.

Charlene looked at him and narrowed her eyes. "You never trusted him."

"No," he admitted.

"But you never told us why," she continued. "And when we got back here: you expected him to be gone. You said so."

"I thought it likely in the circumstances," Jenkins nodded.

"What do you know? Now is not the time to be keeping back secrets."

"Even if they're other people's secrets?"

"If they've anything to do with this," Charlene waggled a finger at him, "spill 'em!"

"This is not my story, nor do I know every detail of it," Jenkins warned.

"Understood," Charlene nodded.

"You may or may not know," he began, "that there was a short period of time in his life where Leonardo da Vinci, according to the history books, disappeared."

"Fourteen seventy six to fourteen seventy eight," supplied Stone. "It was suggested that he may have been incarcerated on charges, trumped up charges he told me, of homosexuality."

"They were, as you say 'trumped up'," agreed Jenkins. "But what the world did not know was that during those two years he was working here. When he returned to his lodging after his trial, at which he was acquitted, he found a white envelope awaiting him there. An envelope the like of which you are all familiar. He joined us here. There, as it was. Oxford, England. In the beginnings of what would later become one of the greatest libraries in the world. He stayed for two years, working cases like you, and like Flynn, and collecting relics and artefacts from all over the globe. Then a case took him back to Italy, to Florence, and he was recognised. He received a commission in the short time that he was there. The first he had ever had, independently, anyway. An altarpiece for the chapel of Saint Bernard in the Palazzo Vecchio. He couldn't let it go. It was his chance. His chance to make a name for himself. To become famous! Of course, we explained then that no Librarian could be famous. Not at the same time as he, or she, worked as a Librarian. The job must always come first. He disagreed. Said he could be both. He could work on the altarpiece here in his spare time. He had long since lost his lodgings. He could use the back door to get to and from the chapel when he needed to. There would be no difficulty. Well, he tried. For a year, he tried. Things kept getting in the way though. Then he was taken in by the Medici, and he left. Not officially, of course. Just a note that said little of any substance and barely any of _that_ to the point! Eventually Judson allowed him to formally sever ties with the Library, if only so that it could send out another letter. There were fewer sent out in those days. I knew Judson was keeping an eye on him though. Helped on a few occasions. I rarely liked what I saw when I did. There were rumours. Rumours of magic. I never saw him use anything myself, but I saw enough to suggest the rumours might have some credence to them. Then there was that 'stroke' business. Not that it was called that then. It was obviously a curse. Anyone who got a close look at the old devil surely could see that. Well, if they were familiar with magic they could, anyway. That was when Judson and I decided to cut our own ties with him. Not too long after we heard that he had died. To be honest we were relieved. I don't know when Judson found out the truth, well, the truth about that anyway, but it was long before I did. Maybe he had expected it. I don't know. He kept me in the loop for the most part once I knew but then, after our little, well, argument, I heard from him less and less."

"How does that help us?" Stone frowned.

"We, or 'I' rather, I can't speak for Judson," shrugged the old man, folding his arms to match Stone's. "I was worried where the magic was coming from. True, the man had a photographic memory and knack for finding magical items, but any item he had found while working for us part time he would pass on to us. I never saw any remarkable pieces in his workshop. If he wasn't giving them to us, where was he storing them, for whom, and why?"

"You think he joined the Serpent Brotherhood?" Charlene frowned. "He's an irritating, pompous, lecherous windbag, but I didn't think he was _that_ bad!"

"Suffice it to say," he sighed, raising his palms, "that I trusted him not. However, my mistrust cannot make him a traitor. I had no evidence to base my dislike on, and so I waited. I was even beginning to believe I had been mistaken. But then there was the, er, incident at the Cillians' house. It had a niggling familiarity to it. And the discovery of the faked items in the Library itself. My doubts began to rise again. Then, when we found out which artefact had begun the great cascade effect of fantasies, those doubts grew stronger. Did none of you wonder how the world's first television, built long before the age of remote controls, had turned itself on? Still, I couldn't be sure. Magical items do not always rest easily beside each other. Then, while we were detained dealing with its deceptions, Dunvegan is attacked. My... My wife. My Flora. My heart! Is attacked. Is killed. With my own sword." The old man's voice shook. "Too many coincidences. And so few people knew. Knew of our connection. Our marriage. Our curse. It was the perfect strike to hurt me. To cut me to the core. To break me. They did not count on the strength of the girl, though. They had thought to disable not one but two Librarians. One retired, one not. They had planned to kill everyone. To take the castle and its magic. With the Cailleach and her successor dead, they thought the faerie magic would travel to the last remaining member of the lineage. But all this could have been down to Mhairi and her treachery alone. I never knew how much Flora told her, but she knew of the relationship between her daughter and Ezekiel. Still, it put me on a path. A dangerous path, leading away from those who needed me most. When the four of you rescued me, leaving your two strongest and most useful team members behind, I knew there was only one reason for doing so: both must be required to keep the way open for your return. When it closed, I feared the worst. It was the perfect time for an attack, but I doubted that the enemy would be aware of it. Unless they had someone on the inside."

"And that someone was da Vinci," Eve sighed. "You should have said something, Jenkins."

"What should I have said?" Jenkins frowned. "To whom should I have said it? You all knew of my inherent dislike of the man. Without evidence, solid evidence, anything I said would be put down to bias on my part."

"They were trying to kill Seonaidh too?" Ezekiel's voice cut in, barely audible. "Her own mother was trying to kill her?"

Jenkins met the young man's eyes. "There are many forms of evil in this world," he breathed. "Jealousy is often the most difficult to overcome."

"Is she safe there?" Ezekiel's voice grew louder, and his eyes never left his mentor's. "Seonaidh: is she safe?"

"I taught her how to raise a magical barrier around the castle," Jenkins nodded. "She is stronger than Flora was at the start. The barrier will hold, even against portals. Nothing evil can enter Dunvegan. Not even if it were born there."

"Can I?"

Jenkins studied the desperation in Ezekiel's eyes. He remembered a similar conversation he had once had with Judson. He remembered the pity on the Scholar's face. It was a pity he was sure his face showed now.

"You could," he sighed, repeating words spoken to him nearly six centuries ago, "but I do not believe you should. You are needed here. The world needs you here. And that is far more important than what the heart wants. The choice, however, remains yours to make."

He knew Ezekiel would be dying inside. Torn apart by duty and desire. He remembered the feeling. He had felt it every day. Still felt it. Even now. Back then it had taken him weeks to even think clearly, let alone function as a Librarian once again. They could not afford weeks. But then, the boy had only been at the start of the romance. He and Flora had been together for a quarter of a century before they were parted. Perhaps this time the parting would be easier. Perhaps.

Ezekiel nodded, remaining silent for the moment. There were more important matters at hand. He had time before he faced that choice. That terrifying choice. That choice he was ninety percent sure he had already made.

"What pages are the books on?" Jones asked, focusing on the task in hand. He watched as Stone and Eve hurried to check.

"This one shows the story of a civilisation who disappeared from the Mediterranean and near east some eight thousand years ago," called back Eve.

"This shows some lore about Chinese dragons," replied Stone.

"This is the story of the genie from the Arabian Nights," read Eve.

"This is the Twilight of the Gods in Norse mythology," murmured Stone, looking back over his shoulder at the others. "It's Ragnarok."

Ezekiel Jones looked down at the fairy tale book in expectation. "This is the story of Maestro Lattantio and His Apprentice Dionigi," he read. A frown tweaked at his eyebrows and he looked over at Jenkins. "It's the original tale, by Straparola, that later became know as the Grimms' fairy tale 'The Thief and His Master'."


	40. Episode 8: Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry for the delay folks. Between work, holiday travels and deadlines looming for other projects, I've had little time or brainspace for this story. It is still going though, never fear, and I hope to get back on track soon.**

 **If you have reviewed this and I haven't replied to you: thank you. I lose track, and some reviews have not even been coming through to my e-mail inbox, and for this I apologise. I always intend to respond personally to every reviewer, at least with an account or identifier, but to all of you my heartfelt thanks. You are as much the source of my motivation as the story burning in my brain, and for your support I am most truly grateful.**

 **Also: friendly warning that there are some slight descriptions of violence later on in this chapter.**

* * *

 **Episode 8: As Big As We Need it To Be, Chapter 2**

"What is the item regarding the Eastern Dragons?" Jenkins asked, ignoring the questioning gazes directed at him by both Ezekiel and Eve.

Stone looked back at the book, quickly scanning the page. "It's about somethin' called the 'Eye of the Zhulong'. You know it?"

Jenkins nodded. "The Zhulong are the Torch dragons, enlighteners," he explained. "They cast light on the darkness. Their eyes can show a traitor or enemy simply by casting their light upon them. They make fabulous lie detectors. There are even in fact rumours that, at the start of the fourteenth century, the eye of a dead Zhulong, brought back from the far east by the trade routes, was used in the trial of the Templars. Unfortunately, all the eye could do, alone, was show the user if the person it looked on was lying about something. At least if they did not know how to use it properly. Which they didn't. The fatal collapse of the house in which the eye was being used, however, brought an end to that means of questioning, at least. After that, no more was heard of it and it was supposed destroyed in the rubble. Never found."

"Was it?" Eve cast a sly glance at the ingenuous face of Jenkins.

"One _might_ have had a hand in retrieving said item," he bowed, inclining his head to the Colonel.

"You caused a fatal house collapse?" Stone asked, frowning.

"The house should have been empty," Jenkins replied, holding up his hands. "The torturers were taking their latest _victim_ to the King. I had not counted on them valuing their prize so greatly that they would leave a guard behind. In my defence: he was one of the vilest human beings I have had the displeasure to meet. And I've met a few."

"Where is the Eye now?" Charlene demanded.

"The vault," Jenkins answered immediately. "Always has been. There is no safer place in the Library."

"You had the Crown of King Arthur on general display in there, not to mention the Spear of Destiny," raged Eve. "Yet you have a glorified lie detector in the _vault_! It can't even tell what you're lying about!"

"Not quite accurate, my dear Colonel," appeased Jenkins. "I said _they_ couldn't tell. _They_ didn't know how to use it properly. Even still, they managed to set more than one poor victim on fire with its power."

"On fire?" Ezekiel cut in.

"The Eye burns its victims," clarified Jenkins. "The greater, or more numerous, the lies, the more it burned, causing more than a few cases of spontaneous combustion in an era where knowledge could be deigned witchcraft, especially in women, and anything that set you apart from the vast majority of the populace could have you shunned, beaten, even killed, simply for being who you are. If you know how to use it, of course, the threat is greater. Everyone has secrets. Everyone lies about something. Hides something. With the right knowledge, the right strength of mind, the right power, the Eye could immolate anyone who had no greater secret than what they planned on having for dinner that evening."

"Two questions," said Charlene, her voice eternally steady. "Number one: can da Vinci access the vault? Number two... Can he use the Eye?"

Jenkins face took on a thoughtful mien, then he looked down. "I believe he would be able to use it," he replied, not meeting Charlene's eye. "Whether he can access the vault or not..."

Ezekiel blinked when the old man's eyes turned expectantly on him. "I don't know," he admitted. "He wasn't there when I set the locks. I didn't talk to him about it..."

"I did," growled Stone, staring down at the page before him. "I was so wrapped up in the idea that one of my heroes was standing right in front of me, I told him anythin' he asked."

All eyes were on Stone, then they turned to Ezekiel, expectant once again. The ex-thief was looking pensive.

"He never asked me, and Cassandra didn't go near him if she could help it," Ezekiel noted.

"Me neither!" Charlene and Eve chimed in together.

Jenkins raised an eyebrow at the Colonel.

"You think Charlene's the only female round here he tried it on with?" Eve asked, matching him one eyebrow and raising him another.

"I certainly said as little as possible to the man," sighed Jenkins, looking away from the Colonel.

"Then he only knows what Stone knows," Ezekiel grinned. "We might beat him to the Eye yet!"

"Meaning?" Stone demanded, his brows drawn down into a thunderous scowl.

"Meaning I'm the only one that knows all the secrets of the vault," smirked the thief. "Put the rest of your together and you know it all, but I only ever told any of you parts of it. The vault is way more complicated than any of you, or da Vinci, think."

"You little..." Stone began, advancing on Ezekiel.

Charlene thwacked the flat of her sword blade across his chest. "Easy Cowboy. Junior's little stunt here might just have saved the day."

"Exactly who knows what?" Eve interrogated, pressing her hands down on the central desk for the want of something to do with them. She wanted to punch something. Hurt something.

"You and Flynn know the same," replied Ezekiel, his own hands raised now in supplication. "Stone and Cassandra know the same. I wouldn't have any of you keep secrets from your other halves. Especially when you didn't know they were secrets. Similarly, Charlene and Jenkins know the same. I know you guys compare notes on us when you think we can't hear you. You like to reminisce too. I couldn't have you comparing notes on the vault and finding they weren't quite identical. There are some overlaps, especially with the locks at the beginning. The rest, only I know."

"So whatever Cassie knows, he already knows," growled Stone. "Jones this still doesn't give him a reason for keeping her alive."

"We can assume Flynn's already blurted most, if not all, of what he knows too," sighed Eve. "Seriously, you would have thought the pair of you were competing for fanboy of the decade!"

"He'd still keep them alive," Ezekiel assured them both. "He needs an active Librarian to access the innermost part of the vault. He'll keep one alive to access it and the other to use as leverage when they refuse. Plus, once he realises he doesn't have the whole picture, he'll want them to help him puzzle it out. Again, one to do his bidding and the other as Leverage."

"Cassie would never let them hurt Flynn," muttered Stone, looking over at Eve.

"No more than Flynn would see any hurt come to Cassandra," said Eve, her voice much steadier than Stone's. "What he would do, though, is stall. And trust us to rescue them before it's too late."

Jacob nodded. "My girl too. Even without her new powers to play with."

"Indeed," mused Jenkins. "The vault is one of the most magically charged areas of the Library. If Miss Cillian's powers were on the wane, drained, as it were, by maintaining the portal for our safe return, they would start recharging as soon as she entered the vicinity of something magical. Since she was already in the Library when she was taken..."

"Even if she was unconscious, she'd still be recharging," finished Jacob. "And in somewhere like the vault..."

"She could supercharge," continued Jones. "Just like she did in the warehouse."

"The blowback from using that level of power would knock her out, though," pointed out Charlene. "She'd be unconscious again for weeks."

"She'd only have one shot," nodded Eve.

"If Miss Cillian is anything," commented Jenkins, stepping closer, "it is prudent. She would refrain from using such an attack until faced with no other option."

"And she would make sure she made it count," nodded Jacob.

Eve looked over to Ezekiel. "Jones: you're up. You redesigned this place. What's the fastest way in and is there any way to overtake them?"

"Well," grinned the thief, "since you mention it..."

XXXX

The steps before him went down.

They also, however, went up.

The first few locks on the vault had been child's play. Easily understood even without the freely given knowledge of their secrets. Now, though, every time he stepped forward, the perspective switched. It wouldn't be such a dilemma if the stairs themselves were wider. Or if there hadn't been that inky black darkness looming up on either side of them. He tested the upper version of the step. His foot passed through, tumbling him dangerously close to his tipping point over the chasm. He stepped again, this time aiming for the lower version of the tread. Once more, his foot touched nothing but air, and only the firm grip of his henchman, holding fast to his belt, saved him from diving to his death.

He examined the steps in detail. Their appearance was solid. Undeniably so. He reached out a hand. They felt solid to the touch. Yet nothing - _nothing_ \- he did could persuade them to remain so to be walked upon. He had examined his prisoners before even beginning on the stairs, first one then the other. Neither seemed to know anything of this section of the vault. It had undoubtedly been a surprise to each of them when his first henchman headed straight for the stairs ahead of the main party and dropped instantly out of sight. Not even his shrinking form could be seen over the lip of the platform. Only the incessant darkness.

The man's screams had faded into silence long before he hit any floor.

He turned back to his prisoners, looking them over with interest. Here was puzzle. A puzzle set by a Librarian, no less. A young Librarian, though, with much still to learn. Surely the combined efforts of a retired Librarian, a veteran Librarian, and a novice could break through the clouds of confusion and shed light upon this mystery?

The veteran and the novice refused to acknowledge the possible truth of this.

Perhaps persuasion would be necessary then. He had so hoped to save this for later. And the redhead's porcelain skin was so perfectly unblemished.

Still they refused to be accommodating.

She had cried out, the redhead, when another of his lackeys introduced his fist to her face. The other had been distressed by this, yet he had still refused to help. Even when the fragile figure had been dragged to her feet, lip bleeding, dripping red onto her bright, white collar.

Another blow. This time a bruise was starting to redden on the left of those ever so dainty cheekbones. Again, she was dragged to her feet. This time she spat blood in his face. He wiped it away with a handkerchief. Such defiance was useless. Meaningless. He would dredge the secret from them. One way or another. Perhaps her defiance would falter, he thought, if her mentor were the one on the receiving end.


End file.
